Child of Sorrows

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Scieran thought, during one of the jumps, that that was something like the best hopes possible for this life: darkness must come, but if all went well each darkness would be followed by greater brightness.

  Scieran didn't know if his realization was an omen, a portent sent by the Gods to brighten his path. He hoped so.

  Please let it be so, Gods, for certainly we have passed into a place of Dark, and we need the light more than ever.

  Jump, jump, jump. And then the last jump, only a few miles away from the center of Faith. The Grand Cathedral was gone, but people had not lost hope. They were trying to rebuild what had been lost. And though what they created would be different, and probably less grand to look upon, Scieran knew this: whatever they built would be theirs, in a way the Grand Cathedral had never been. Not a gift from Gods or Greater Gifts long-gone, but a thing of their own hands, their own hearts.

  No longer a gift to them, but one from them – and more valuable for that.

  The last small house held a young man who was asleep on a pallet in the corner. He started awake when Scieran appeared, began lurching groggily to his feet, but stopped when Scieran gestured that he should remain.

  "Sleep, my boy," he said. "I will walk from here."

  The young man – barely more than a boy – shook his head, even as he sank back and his eyes began to close. "I can send you…."

  Scieran bent down and lay a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Sleep. Where I go, you cannot send me."

  And that was true. Just as Eyes could only show people places they themselves had already seen, Wanderers could only send something or someone to a place they themselves had visited.

  And there was no way this boy had ever been to the catacombs.

  He left the small building – the boy already asleep and snoring lightly as he left – and started toward the place where he knew the catacombs lay. Various paths lay scattered through the lightly-forested land around the Grand Cathedral –

  (How long will it be until I stop thinking as though the Cathedral still stands?

  Perhaps it does still stand – if only in the hearts of the Faithful.

  Perhaps that, too, is a kind of light.)

  – so it was easy enough for Scieran to walk toward his destination. Or at least, it was easy enough for him to orient on his destination. The walking, as always, cost him. Since his battle with the Chancellor and with Armor – the evil man's greatest protector, though the man had been honorable and had never agreed with what the Chancellor did – walking more than a few paces at a time pained him. He had always viewed people with canes – like Father Akiro – as using something that made life easier.

  It wasn't until he was forced to use one himself that he realized they were not conveniences, but necessities.

  More than once he tottered and almost fell, the third leg of the cane the only thing that saved him from crashing ignominiously to the ground. After less than a league, every step was agony.

  He continued on. More than that, he kept his face impassive, showing nothing of his pain.

  No one is watching. Just let it out, for once.

  No, the Gods watch. And you watch, Scieran. Don't let self-pity mar your face.

  He pushed forward, and eventually found what he was looking for. He had been there many times – which was lucky, considering that sunlight was not even a memory by the time he hobbled to the tree he wanted. The night was dark – clouds had rolled over the sky, perhaps it would even rain – so he found the place as much by muscle memory as by sight.

  A small branch that was not a branch stuck out of the side of the tree. Cunningly crafted to look like the same wood it jutted out of, but it was a key. Scieran grasped it and rotated it a half-turn away, then twisted it a full turn toward him.

  A click. The tree split in half, revealing a hole in the ground with a stairway that led beneath the earth – to the catacombs. The Archive. Father Inmil and, hopefully, some answers.

  Scieran moved forward, walking down the stairs. The tree re-sealed itself behind him, and as always he marveled at the skill of whatever Smith or other Gift had crafted these entrances to the caverns and passages below Faith's center.

  He walked through the tunnels, enjoying the cool air of places below the earth. Glo-globes flickered, lighting his way with warmth.

  The pain in his bones seemed to fall away as he closed on his final destination. Part of that, he knew, was simply his body anticipating rest. Much of it, though, was his mind anticipating the Archive. There were those who adored the place – Father Inmil and the somewhat strange Brother Luca, even Inmil's sister, Mother Maci.

  Scieran did not love it so. But he found it a place of comfort. Secreted away from a world that was so often confusing and cruel. Held in the heart of the earth, kept safe by the will of the Gods.

  He entered the Archive. The books were as ever – lining the walls, piled on the floor, stacked on the shelves that had been carved out of the living rock, spread across great stones that served as tables.

  But there was no one in the chamber. He had expected to see Father Inmil for certain, and he had never set foot in this place – not in the last quarter-century, at least – without seeing Brother Luca bent over some tome or other.

  Here, now? No one.

  Scieran was about to call out when he heard voices. Speaking animatedly, the high-pitched sounds of excitement.

  His own pulse quickened. They had sent the Old Book with the tree. And excited voices could only mean that answers had been found.

  The acoustics of underground caverns meant it was difficult to orient on the sounds. They bounced and echoed, and Scieran took several steps down two wrong passages before moving to one where the sound was definitely stronger.

  He found them. Saw them looking at the Old Book with the tree, at the wall. Saw them touching the pocks in the wall, then saw Maci moving her hands.

  He recognized the pattern she traced: writing "KEY" with her fingers by following a series of the small crevices in the wall while Father Inmil and Brother Luca watched. A moment later he realized that she wasn't just tracing the indentations, she was putting her fingers inside them… pushing?

  The last one. And something clicked.

  Scieran could no longer resist.

  "Well, well," he said. Father Inmil and Brother Luca both jumped, and Scieran felt a wonderful moment of glee – a sense of happiness that had been in short supply over the last few days. "I leave you alone for a little while, and what happens?"

  Father Inmil saw him, and smiled. "Father Scieran," he said.

  "I've told you, it's Brother," Scieran growled. Then he looked at Mother Maci, her fingers still sunk deep into the final hole in the word. "And what has your sister discovered?"

  "How did you –" Brother Luca's eyes bulged to dangerous size. Scieran worried for a moment that they might explode. "How did you get here?"

  Brother Scieran grinned and winked at him. "I'm sneaky," he said conspiratorially. None of the people in the room knew about the Wandering Line, and it wasn't his place to reveal it.

  Besides, this was more fun.

  He looked at Mother Maci. "Well, don't wait on me. Finish what you've begun."

  She nodded slightly, then pulled. Her old arms strained and quivered, then a sharp crack broke the silence of the catacombs… and the wall fell apart.

  Scieran supposed he probably looked like Brother Luca had when he first spoke. He felt his eyes widen almost painfully, his mouth gaping so broadly his cheeks hurt.

  This secret place had been here as long as the catacombs themselves, of that there could be no doubt. The way the wall split was too much like the way the tree slid open to admit Scieran to the catacombs to be a coincidence. This place had been built when the rest of the caverns had been hollowed out, and by the same gifted men and women, if not the Gods themselves.

  What seemed to be solid rock suddenly split from floor to ceiling, two ten-foot slabs of stone rolling back on hidden wheels, then sliding
apart and disappearing behind the rest of the wall.

  Behind them: a room. A single glo-globe hung from the ceiling, partially embedded in the rock. It was dim – so very dim – but it still illuminated the small room. Enough that they could see its contents: a stone table, nearly an altar; and on the table a single book.

  Scieran heard Brother Luca's breath catch, and the priest stepped forward, hands outstretched eagerly. At the same time, Father Inmil grunted in unmistakable disappointment. "Just another Old Book," he muttered.

  "Just another Old Book?" Brother Luca sounded confused to the point of pain. "Do you know how long it's been since one was found?"

  "Since this morning," Mother Maci observed dryly.

  Brother Luca looked at the book Father Inmil clutched, the tree design on its cover easily visible, and snorted. "That's not an Old Book, it's a copy." He gestured at the tome on the altar/table in the room. "This is a true Old Book."

  Brother Luca still hadn't touched the book. His hands hovered only inches away, then withdrew and rubbed together as though cold.

  "Well, get it then," said Scieran. He tried to make his voice light, as though whatever was happening had no real import. He failed. The words felt like stone on his lips. Like he was moving something huge, something that could never be unmoved.

  Everything is about to change.

  Still, Brother Luca didn't touch the volume. Not until Father Inmil said, "Oh, for the sake of –" and stepped forward himself. Then Brother Luca snatched the book off the table, hugging it to his breast as though afraid that Father Inmil might steal it away.

  Mother Maci laughed at that: a soft laugh, the kind that made merry without mockery. "We won't take your treasure, Brother Luca." She, too, stepped forward. "Though it would be nice to actually see it, wouldn't it? I would like to see what this 'key' actually opens."

  Luca nodded – slowly, as though deciding whether to simply take the book and run away with it. Then he put it back on the table. Scieran limped into the room: his bones and muscles had started to ache again, screaming protest with every motion.

  Mother Maci followed. A moment later so did Father Inmil. The small room behind the wall brightened as he entered, and Scieran realized that his friend had plucked a glo-globe from one of the sconces in the hall, bringing it in to illuminate whatever they had found. He also placed the book with the tree on the stone table, close enough that it could be looked at if need be, but far enough to give Luca room to work.

  The binding crackled as Luca pulled the front cover open, and he froze for a moment – obviously afraid he was going to damage the book. "I have better tools –"

  Scieran shook his head. "Normally I would encourage you to get them, but I don't think we have that kind of time. We'll have to risk damaging the binding, I'm afraid."

  Brother Luca looked absolutely scandalized at that, but he nodded a moment later and pulled the book the rest of the way open.

  Scieran's heart sank, and he heard Father Inmil and Mother Maci both sigh disappointedly.

  It was another Old Book. But that meant it was hidden away as surely as it had been only moments ago. Not by a hidden door of stone, but by time and the strange language of a people unknown to history.

  Scieran cursed. Sometimes even a man of the Faithful loses control of his tongue.

  He turned away from the table and from Brother Luca, who remained bent over the Old Book and oblivious to the world.

  Mother Maci and Father Inmil followed him into the hall. Scieran eyed the place the wall had split apart and said, "How did you find this?"

  The brother and sister brought him up to speed, quickly going over the message they had found hidden in the book with the tree, and how it had brought them here.

  "But it brought us to nothing," Scieran muttered.

  "Where did the book come from? And why would someone kill to protect it?" asked Father Inmil.

  Scieran shook his head. "Sword got it. From the Chancellor, if you can –"

  "The Chancellor?" Father Inmil nearly shouted the words. "But, he's dead, isn't he?"

  "Not according to Sword," said Scieran. "She – wait, what do you mean, someone would kill to protect the book?"

  Father Inmil looked at his sister, who shrugged. Then he told Scieran of coming to the catacomb, of being attacked by one of the men who brought it, of almost dying.

  "You killed him instead?" Scieran eyed his friend. Father Inmil was not a priest-warrior of the Order of Chain; nor was he a young man. Scieran believed what he said – he had known Father Inmil long enough and well enough to trust him with his life – but he wondered how an old priest could have bested a young assassin in the dark.

  Father Inmil looked at his sister, and they shared a look that Scieran could not interpret. Mother Maci dropped her eyes, and Father Inmil looked back at Scieran. "Yes," he said simply, though Scieran sensed a wealth of meaning behind the simple word.

  Scieran didn't inquire further. His friend would tell him more when – if – it became necessary, and when – if – he was ready.

  "But why kill to protect it? If it leads to nothing but more empty words that none can understand?"

  "Because it doesn't." Brother Luca's voice sounded frenzied, each syllable an exercise in controlled hysteria. Scieran worried that the priest had seen something horrible, then realized the hysteria wasn't born of terror, but of elation. Brother Luca gestured them over. "It's the key," he said. "The key."

  "What do you mean, Luca?" asked Mother Maci. "What –"

  Her voice cut off so abruptly it was as though it had been slashed in pieces. She was looking at the Old Book on the table, and Scieran realized she wasn't even breathing. "Gods," she gasped.

  Scieran and Father Inmil looked down as well. And now it was their turn to cease breathing, their turn to marvel.

  "It's the key," said Brother Luca again. He laughed, a high-pitched, quavering giggle.

  Below them, on the page Brother Luca had found, twin columns marched down in thin black lines. The first had single words. The second held paragraphs – one paragraph matched to each word.

  Both columns were written in ink notably darker than that found in the rest of the book.

  Added later? Scieran wondered. Of so, then by whom?

  The question faded to irrelevance in the next moment.

  Two columns. A single word, with a matching paragraph beside it. The single words were Old. The unknown speech of the time before.

  The paragraphs were not. The writing was strange, slanted differently than Scieran was used to, but recognizable nonetheless.

  It was the language of Ansborn. And as far as he could tell….

  "It's the Old words," said Mother Maci. "It's what they mean." She looked at Father Inmil, who looked at Scieran. "We can read them now," she gasped. "We can read them all."

  "The key to the times before," whispered Scieran.

  Brother Luca was flipping rapidly through the pages of the book. Then he frowned and opened the book with the tree on the cover. He made a strange, strangled sound.

  "What?" said Scieran. "What is it?"

  Luca laughed. Not a giggle this time, but a long, hard, throaty laugh that sounded out of place coming from such a slight form. "It's the answer!" he finally shouted. "Together, these books are the answer!"

  "To what? Make sense, Luca!" Mother Maci looked like she was on the verge of slapping him – and Scieran understood the feeling completely.

  "To everything. To who we are and where we came from!"

  Inmil shouted as well then – shock, surprise, joy. The search of a lifetime about to come to fruition.

  But Scieran felt only a strange fear.

  The answer to who we are.

  And where we come from.

  Answers to questions that none in Ansborn had ever been able to reveal. And, perhaps, the revelation of whatever enemy lay beneath the clouds.

  12

  Sword had never traveled so quickly.

  Well, she supposed
she had, one time. Her first assignment as a Blessed One, her final test to see if she would serve as an assassin for the Chancellor and the Emperor. She had been transported with the others in her team – with a whole room, whole and intact – to a place near their target. Something like what a Wanderer might do, only much more powerful, moving all of them a greater distance than any of those Gifts could manage.

  The Chancellor probably did it – the Phoenix who stole others' powers undoubtedly had consumed the Greater Gift of someone who could do such a thing.

  So yes, she had traveled faster. But never had she moved in a way that seemed faster than this, riding in the grasp of a metal giant who flew through the air, born by flame. The wind slashed at her, cruel but somehow exhilerating at the same time. She could only look forward in quick bursts, since if she kept her eyes open too long the air drove curtains of tears down her cheeks and obscured her vision.

  Even so, even in a series of blinking, weeping glimpses, she saw Fear. The magma burbling out of the dark, rocky earth. Small areas where the nomadic people of the land had cultivated gardens that would let them eke out a bare existence. A few places in the distance that were clearly Army strongholds – the only real cities that existed in this land.

  And, of course, the ash shroud that hung over all. A grim place where death was the only real way of life.

  The roar of the giant's fires grew, and they sped up even more. Sword had to keep her eyes closed completely now, and soon even that wasn't enough. The air battered her eyelids painfully, and she only found respite by turning her head and upper body inward, nestling against the breast of her enemy.

  Is he my enemy?

  He had tried to kill her. He had hurt her friends.

  But he had honor. A code. He had moved to save her as fast as he had to harm her.

  Where is he taking me?

  He had said he would take her to where they could share their stories, but she had no idea what that might mean.

  He also said he would decide then whether or not to kill me.