The Godseeker Duet

by David A Willson

  “You’re not showing me much, lately,” she said to the empty wood. Aided by her walking stick, she worked through the birch and spruce trees that swayed in the afternoon breeze. “Found someone else to do your work?”

  As was often the case, no answer came. No matter. She was finally playing the role she’d waited for, and there was peace in it, even without knowing what exactly came next.

  Making her way to the top of the plateau, her gaze rested on Eastway. She had not attended to the abbey grounds for months and never said goodbye. A monk had likely visited in early winter, but she had been in the cavern with the others and the tiny cabin was boarded up. They likely thought she had abandoned them. In truth, hadn’t she done exactly that? She turned to the northwest, to Fairmont. The Twins stood proud, one a peaked mountain, the other a plateau, both disappearing into the cloud cover above. She adjusted her backpack and took a few steps but then stopped, turning to look about. Cold rocks and sticks scattered the area, and the birch trees atop the flat rise had not yet responded to nature’s command to produce new leaves. No squirrels danced about their bare branches, and the wind whistled through the sleeping sentinels unnoticed by living things. Unnoticed by any except her. But Anne was leaving, and these trees, this plateau, and the cabin below would be lonely. She lingered a moment, reluctant to say goodbye. For many years she had spent time here, praying, thinking, sometimes even sleeping. But that was over, and this was her last look.

  She harrumphed at her melancholy and turned again to the west. Nara had run off with little training. She knew many runes but was skilled with few. She had missed a critical lesson and, without it, she would find no victory. But there was another way to deliver it, a way prepared long ago. Anne started down the plateau, avoiding rocks on the path to prevent injury.

  She looked up to the sky. “To Veneti,” she said. “I go where You send me.”

  But He didn’t answer.

  10

  Caged

  Sammy didn’t like being at the bottom of the boat. It was dark, and he didn’t like the dark. Not at all. Sometimes they opened the door above, and when light came down the stairs, he could see the faces of the others who were with him, huddling together to stay warm. The air was wet and cold, though. That was almost as bad as the dark.

  When the kids first came into the boat, a soldier gave them blankets, but there weren’t enough to go around. Sammy wanted a blanket for himself, but there were smaller kids who needed them more, so he shivered alone. After a while of shivering, someone came over and sat next to him with her blanket. He couldn’t see her face in the dark but was pretty sure it was Serah Willy. She always smelled like onions, and her voice was very soft.

  “Are you cold?” she asked in a soft, oniony voice. Definitely Serah. He wondered how she knew it was him. She couldn’t see him either, but maybe he smelled like something too. Or maybe she had seen him when they opened the door. He hoped that was it.

  “I’m fine.”

  She moved her blanket to cover his legs, then leaned against him. She was warm, and it felt nice.

  “Where are they taking us?” Serah asked.

  “Dunno.”

  “I’m scared.”

  Sammy was also scared, but wouldn’t say it. Not in front of a girl, anyway. He wasn’t the oldest boy here. That was Clive Anders, thirteen and sitting alone with his very own blanket. But Sammy was older than most of them and would be brave for them, even if he was just pretending.

  “We’ll be okay. They won’t hurt kids.”

  “They killed Simon.”

  That was true. Sammy had tried to put that out of his mind, but it came back now, and his eyes tried to cry. Sammy scrunched up his forehead, but a tear came out, anyway. At least it was dark and Serah couldn’t see. She wiggled around, then leaned on Sammy, putting her head on his shoulder.

  “Why did they take us?” she asked.

  Did Serah think Sammy knew these things? After a while, she fell asleep. He could tell because she stopped moving around, and her breathing got slow.

  But Sammy couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking of Pop, and how he fought the soldiers. He thought about the post office on fire, and the screaming. He thought about Simon but stopped because it would make him cry again. Crying was for babies and he would be brave. At least until Mykel could save him.

  But Mykel was gone and had been for a long time. And Mykel couldn’t save him because he didn’t know they were on a boat. Even if Mykel came home to Dimmitt, he wouldn’t know where the soldiers took Sammy and wouldn’t be able to find him at all.

  He scrunched up his eyes again, but he couldn’t stop the tears this time. Lots of them came rolling down his cheeks. He leaned his head against Serah’s and let the tears flow.

  A long time passed on the boat before the men opened the door at the top of the stairs and let Sammy and the other kids out. Sammy waited behind, shielding his eyes from the daylight with his hands.

  The deep voice of a soldier yelling made Sammy move, and he walked up the steps behind the other kids. They walked in a line to the edge of the boat near a big plank. The plank had little wood strips you put your feet on so you wouldn’t slip on the wet wood, but Serah slipped anyway and almost fell.

  They stood on the dock for a while before two wagons arrived. Wagons with cages. The soldiers forced them into the cages, then put a lock on the outside. The wagon ride was long, and it rained sometimes. They were given wet biscuits and they huddled together because the sun didn’t keep them very warm. Sometimes, they stopped to pee, but the soldiers yelled a lot because the kids didn’t move very fast. At night, they stopped in the middle of the road and the soldiers slept in shifts, but the kids stayed in the cages. It was mean to put kids in cages. He remembered what the man in black robes said about punishment, but the kids had done nothing wrong, and they shouldn’t be punished.

  After several days on the road, Sammy saw hills. Another day and he saw mountains, big ones, way bigger than Dimmitt’s, and with snow all over the top. It was even colder in the mountains, but it was beautiful, too.

  When the wagons stopped for good, it had been many days, maybe ten or twelve or more. The kids all got out, and when he walked, Sammy’s legs hurt. His back hurt too.

  “Follow me,” one soldier said. He was a short soldier, but still taller than most of the kids. He led them into a big red brick building, with every brick lined up perfectly. Even cold, scared, and with sore legs, Sammy could appreciate those bricks. Maybe he would be a bricklayer when he grew up.

  Inside the building was another cage, big enough for all the kids. There were pillows inside, enough for every kid to have one. Some kids ran to pick the best pillow they could. Sammy grabbed one as well, hugging it tightly. Then he wrapped himself in his wet blanket and closed his eyes, pretending he was home in Dimmitt.

  11

  Graveyard

  Nara heard a sound and opened her eyes to see Mykel enter the cottage. His eyes were dry, and he carried purpose in his posture as he stopped in the middle of the room.

  She rose from the cot and went over to him. “You okay?” she asked.

  “We need to bury the rest.”

  “Where?”

  “A new graveyard. Near town.”

  “Easy to visit. So nobody forgets.”

  “Yes.”

  Mykel decided on a clearing several hundred yards to the west of town, a flat piece of land on higher terrain. Nara stood at the edge of the area, overlooking the southern Dimmitt coast from atop the small cliff. Waves crashed on rocks below and she squinted, barely able to make out the large island to the south where one would find the Village of Fulsk. Dimmitt felt so different now, and it wasn’t just because of the murders or losing Sammy. The last time she stood here, she was a silly girl with no idea what her future would hold, ignorant to the darkness that was coming for her.

  She turned away from the seascape to see that several villagers stood near the entrance, watching Mykel. Lina and her mother w
ere among them. Nara began to watch Mykel as well. One by one, he would reach his arms around a tree and lift, tearing it from the soil below, then drop it with a crash. He then broke away the roots by hand, eventually dragging the tree off to a pile on one side, then returning to pull the roots from their home in the soil. It was violent, and even with his magic, Mykel seemed to strain with the effort, skin reddening and muscles taut with the effort.

  It took over two hours, the trees and brush now cleared away, but the earth was profoundly disturbed from Mykel’s efforts, piles of dirt and broken branches scattered about. More villagers came, and a dozen stood together, watching in amazement.

  His work complete, Mykel walked over to Nara, shoulders slumped, his shirt and skin dirty and scratched, eyes tired, exhaustion apparent on his face.

  “Good job,” she said.

  He said nothing, instead moving to the cliff’s edge where he sat and stared out at the ocean.

  It was her turn, now.

  She moved to the center of the clearing, sat cross-legged, and placed her hands on the ground. Closing her eyes, she summoned the earth rune, the soil seeming to come alive in her mind. She told it what she wanted, and it moved to obey, swallowing the debris, smoothing out the rough patches, and forming nineteen individual graves. She summoned up a pile of soft dirt next to each of them, ready for the villagers to cover their loved ones. To say goodbye.

  Headstones rose from the earth, each with slightly different shapes. The faces were blank, and Nara imagined someone would chip names into the stones. Too many names.

  Cobblestone paths soon wound through the graveyard, small, multicolored stones set closely together to guide those who would come to visit. Large lumps of disturbed earth transformed into stone benches, simple but strong enough to last many years. Two raised basins appeared, each with room to hold rainwater for birds to drink. Or perhaps for visitors. One was lower and could be reached by small children, while the other was taller. A single stone arch rose at the entrance to the area. Simple. Strong. A symbol to those who would enter, reminding them that this was a different sort of place.

  That was enough for now. Maybe someday she would come back, plant trees or flowers and lots of grass. Or maybe the villagers would do that for her. She suspected that once she left Dimmitt again, she wouldn’t be back for a very long time.

  Nara rose and walked over to the group of villagers.

  “It’s beautiful,” Lina’s mother said through tears and hugged Nara. “Thank you.”

  “You’re both gifted,” Mr. Tibbins said. “But what I’ve seen today, I, uh . . . I’ve never heard of anything like it. Gifted don’t do this.”

  She understood what he was saying. Gifted go to war. They destroy. They don’t create. When Mykel cleared the area, Nara wondered at the wisdom of showing their magic openly, old habits of hiding the truth coming to mind. Habits that served no purpose here.

  “No more secrets,” she said.

  “Are they going to come after you?” Mr. Tibbins asked, his eyes shifting to Mykel, who was still looking out over the sea.

  “Probably.”

  “What will you do?”

  “We’ll fight,” Nara said.

  “You will need more people.”

  “Yes. We will need an army.”

  12

  A New Plan

  It was cold in the castle today, and as the minister approached her on the throne, Kayna wrapped the fur stole around her shoulders more tightly.

  “Your Majesty, we have a concern,” he said. It was Jayho something—she couldn’t remember his last name, nor did she care. He was nothing but a bureaucratic fool who spent his days shuffling parchment, counting numbers, and dwelling on uninteresting things. Oh, how Papa had loved to agonize over such minutia. She loathed it all.

  “Things aren’t going well,” he continued. The man’s voice sounded weak. Submissive. An appropriate tone for one who was failing so miserably.

  Kayna raised an eyebrow.

  “Um . . . the people. I’m talking about the people. They aren’t paying their taxes as they should. Or delivering goods on time. Even the indentured ones seem to be slow in fulfilling their normal duties.”

  “Well, you’re the minister of lands, are you not? If they aren’t paying their leases or fulfilling their contracts, wouldn’t that be your fault?”

  “Yes, perhaps. Perhaps you’re right. I mean, of course you are right. But there are rumors. Children missing. Villages destroyed. It has them quite upset, and I . . . um . . .”

  “Spit it out, Jayho.”

  “Would it be possible for you to interact with the people more? I mean, go to them, be visible, provide a sense of security or something? If they saw you, perhaps they–”

  “You want me to hang out with peasants?” Her harsh tone hung in the air, and he faltered.

  “Um, no, not really that. I would never presume. But since the unfortunate death of your father, they have seen little of their monarch. With all these rumors there just doesn’t seem to be much incentive for them. To obey, I mean.”

  She had indeed been reclusive since taking the throne, and the people saw little of her. Perhaps a big show would jolt them into action; it would not do for the royal coffers to run out of coins.

  “Very well. Get with my steward and plan a ceremony. One week from today. Invite the people to visit their queen, and I will receive them with open arms.”

  Oh, how revolting to be near those people. Some worked in stables or pig yards and didn’t even bathe! Yet she could just crack a peasant’s skull and that wonderful, tasty life energy would leave their bodies and find its home in her own spirit. An enigma of grand proportions, for sure. It mattered not at all if they were children or old people, criminals or clergy. They all tasted delicious.

  Which reminded her of Ennis’ ongoing research into the manufacture of a cursed. Perhaps a visit to his rooms down below the castle was in order. He was a detestable creature himself, with his sores and such. But he was brilliant, and, thankfully, he didn’t smell like dung.

  It didn’t take long to return to her spacious chambers, get into something more comfortable, and make her way down to the damp, cold dungeon halls. The screams that welcomed her made it clear that Ennis was hard at work.

  “Any luck today?” she asked. Ennis looked up from the subject he was working on: an adult male, spread-eagled, both hands and a forearm bleeding profusely. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving.

  “Fainted?”

  “Yes,” Ennis said. “It happens a lot. The pain, you know.”

  “Of course. So?”

  Ennis clicked his tongue as he shuffled over to a shelf and placed the bloody ceppit in a tin container. “Not so much success here, but I have worked out the details of our plan.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the compound is nearly complete.”

  “That was quick.”

  “I made sure that the construction crews were well motivated.”

  “Good work.”

  “A central large building serves as the initial receiving area, quarters for the guards and staff, as well as administrative offices. We have four project buildings, each with cells in an area below, where the real work happens. We can progress with four simultaneous trials.”

  “And the process?”

  Ennis cleared his throat. “It will be as with all the others, but much slower. Less damage, I’m hoping. Or controlled damage, perhaps.” He shuffled back over to the unconscious subject on his table, gesturing over the young man like he was a prop. “We still require you to stretch the container, creating flaws in the shell that let the magic seep out. They will suffer as before. There is no other way. If we slow down, however, we will manage it better.”

  “How will we prevent them from hating me? Causing all that pain when they know I’m the one doing it? They need to have someone to hate, you said.”

  “Yes, of course. But you won’t be you, Your Majesty. You’ll be someone e
ntirely different.”

  “And who is that?”

  “You’ll be her.”

  It took a moment to sink in. “Oh, that’s good,” she said in a flat tone. “They will be driven by both hatred and loyalty. Turn the process around. Make the flaw work in our favor.”

  He smiled. “There is only one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Some from the latest group came from Dimmitt. Quite a few, actually.”

  “Yes, I heard. Finally. That town needed to learn its lesson, but—” She paused. “Oh. Curses. They know her.”

  “I think it will still be okay. We start the grooming and take advantage of the first level of damage.”

  “Amnesia.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you play the role.”

  She nodded. This man might look like a troll, but he possessed the practiced strategy of a field tactician. “You would have done well in the army. Or politics.”

  “I’m happy to serve right here, Your Majesty.”

  Part Two

  The sounds of creation are a mournful thing, voices of beauty that rise and ring.

  From bird to beast, from child to stone, every pretty thing fears being alone.

  Poems of the Ages, Lady Bess Amwater, 565 PB

  13

  First Strike

  It wasn’t dark yet, but twilight neared as they looked upon Junn’s walled fort and its soldiers milling about. It had taken little time to find this outpost on the outskirts of town, and they now lay quietly in the woods atop a small rise, looking down upon the fortification. A constant rain found its way through the trees, dripping from the leaves and branches above. Nara and Mykel hid in the wet foliage, prone, elbows propped as they surveyed the fortification ahead. Nara’s bare feet dug into the muddy soil, toes fidgeting in anticipation of what she and Mykel were planning.