Blessings and Trials (Exiles and Sojourners Book 1)

by Thomas Davidsmeier

  “Oh, I certainly could, but I don’t have time to butcher them. Could you do that, then I’ll come back for the…” She almost said corpses. “...Dressed birds?”

  “No need ta come back. Young Karl already did all of them up this mornin’. Hope ya don’t mind he did yer bird fer ya?”

  “No, no I don’t mind at all.” Anya beamed at the innkeep. “I’ll get them done for you in no time!”

  Their little family almost never had money for extra meat. It was a shame that Gilm was missing out, but Pyter would be very pleased. It wouldn’t matter that the bird was scrawny and tough. They would be sharing a feast at the tower that night.

  CHAPTER 7 - SURVIVORS

  23rd of Sorun, 2nd Year, 31st Aion

  “The Blessed vary widely in both raw talent and developed skill. A naturally talented Blessed may not apply themselves and so may be surpassed by a less talented but much harder working Blessed. That said, there are certain attributes and qualities that seem to be inborn. Their overall capacity for exercising their gift before they must rest, the effects of overexertion, the maximum effort they can put forth at any given instant are improvable through practice and exercise to a certain degree. A contrary example is the need or lack of need for physical contact with the object of their gift. This particular attribute is innate and not alterable by all accounts. An aetherial who must be touching an object to push it can never intentionally learn to detach their gift from that limitation.”

  – Gianconi Alaba, A History of the Disposition of the Blessed Gifts and Their Bearers

  “Come on, we have to go!” Gwyndolyn was squealing. Her little voice rattled with an upper note of fear.

  “Go!” roared Dargar, the rush of battle still mingled with fear was coursing through his broken body. “I follow if can.” He grunted low and hard as he rolled away one of the chunks of ceiling pinning his leg.

  Litharus felt the cold sweat popping out all over his shivering body. “Yes, sir. I’ll try.” The twelve-year-old forced his body to move, willing each muscle. It felt like he was hollowed out, scraped clean. He had put every bit and more of his power and strength into their last-ditch trap. But, it had worked and he had no time to be tired. Still, he could feel himself slipping into the stupor of a Blessed who had done too much.

  Ingrid leaned in under his arm and helped propel him across the chancel toward the door as best she could. She had not expended much energy drawing the water fish out of the baptismal font, and she was in much better shape than Litharus.

  Ingrid glanced over at Gwyndolyn with amazement. With her silver hair and bronze skin, the little girl certainly looked like a perfect image of Pendan, the Eldest Son of Enoch whose gift she shared. Still, Gwyndolyn had never done anything like what she had just done to the Fallen. Her control of the aether had been small and gentle like pushing a ball across a table or pulling up a dropped thimble back to her hand. She was not supposed to be so Blessed at her age.

  Gwyndolyn was a blur of frightened energy now. Dashing into the opposite wing of the transept away from the collapse, she crouched down next to what looked like the blank name plate of an empty crypt. Her tiny finger was slashing across the smooth stone cover in sloppy strokes of handwriting. She paused and waited for a moment. Then her voice twittered out, “It isn’t working, Litharus! Do you have to be a stonewright?”

  Ingrid managed to guide and prod Litharus across the altar and down the steps. “He’s not in any shape to answer, but it is supposed to work for anybody who writes the right words. Are you spelling it right?” Ingrid was close enough to duck out from under Litharus’s arm and dart over to the littler girl.

  “I think so. Ancient isn’t my best subject,” admitted Gwyndolyn with embarrassment in her voice.

  Ingrid bent over and pushed her hair out of her face. She reached out and carefully traced a few symbols on the plate. “There, ‘He is risen.’”

  “Oh,” replied the younger girl, “I was switching the last two letters. At least I think that’s what I was doing.”

  The tracings began to glow where nothing had been before. The lines and curves danced slowly about and formed a new word. “Indeed,” read off Gwyndolyn in her chirp of a voice.

  “See, you do know Ancient,” encouraged Ingrid as she backed up. Then she reached forward and tugged on the stupefied Litharus. The young stonewright was almost sleepwalking as he took two awkward shuffles back. Gwyndolyn stepped back as well as the stone at the mouth of crypt and the floor right in front of it began to flow like liquid. The material slid out of the way and reformed into steps down, revealing a small open doorway. Carefully, Ingrid guided Litharus down the steps and ducked his head through the low arch. The boy would have been impressed with the master stonework of another Blessed, if he hadn’t been nearly unconscious.

  Gwyndolyn paused at the top of the stairs and stared back at Dargar. He was still stuck wrestling with one large stone on his leg. He looked up for a moment as if he sensed her pale green eyes on him.

  “Go, little one. I follow if can. You no wait. I slow now. Make you slow. Go!” Dargar panted with his words as his common speech became much worse through pain-gritted teeth. He turned and put his injured hand back on the stone and began to push again. Gwyndolyn concentrated and reached out through the aether, putting what energy she had left into a forceful shove in time with Dargar’s rocking of the stone. She felt faint, but the sound of the stone rolling onto the floor was like a trumpet call back to consciousness. She giggled airily, feeling a little lightheaded to be sure, and turned to go down the steps.

  But the steps were not there any more. The secret door had shut itself while she had been helping Dargar with her Blessing. Oh, how had Ingrid fixed my spelling? Gwyndolyn’s mind was foggy with the exertion and exhaustion that came with using her Blessing. She turned back again toward Dargar to ask for help, but the look on the Wildman’s face made her question catch in her throat.

  Dargar had pulled himself up to kneeling and was looking back toward the knave of the sanctuary. He looked down for his sword. Groaning, he spotted it well out of his reach by the altar. It looked as if he was considering some of the smaller rocks on the floor around him. Then, he made up his mind. He just lunged awkwardly for his sword, his mangled arm and his almost certainly broken leg flailing grotesquely.

  Gwyndolyn did not wait to see what was making Dargar so worried. The rush of fear and uncertainty burst loose in her blood, clearing her mind enough for her to spin back to the crypt cover and begin trying symbols.

  “She was rose.”

  “He will rise.”

  Something that wasn’t even the Ancient Tongue.

  “He will rise.” Again, she made the same mistake as before.

  Whispering under her breath as she heard a horrifying wet thump that sounded like a watermelon being split behind her where Dargar was doing things she did not want to know about. “Lord, please!” After an eternity of wretched spelling, she managed, “He is risen.” The door flowed open again as a high grating, chittery voice clattered off the walls of the sanctuary. Gwyndolyn didn’t look back. She crept down the first two steps as quietly as she could and heard more of the voice. It was closer and easier to make out this time.

  “What are you doing here, Wildman? You should be in the village finishing that slaughter. This place is for my sisters and my mother to clean… Ack! What happened to my little sister? Did you do this?”

  As she got through the doorway, Gwyndolyn carefully slid to the side of the opening and felt for a handle or something that would cause it to close behind her.

  The voice spoke again, this time closer. “How did you get here? Is there a passage from the village? Answer me, you two-legged oaf!”

  Enough time must have passed because even though Gwyndolyn had found no handle or lever, the door began to close. The voice chittered quickly, “How did you become injured? Where are the Winged One and the Eater? There is something strange about your sword, what is it?” Gwyndolyn tried
to sneak one final glance. But because of the way the door flowed close, all she got was a glimpse of the sanctuary ceiling and the sound of something snapping sharply and another horrifying wet thump like another watermelon being split.

  The stone had flowed tightly closed. She was alone in the dark.

  Ingrid noticed that Gwyndolyn was missing far later than she should have, but it was pitch black and Litharus had been stumbling and sighing, barely able to stay upright. At first, she didn’t know what to do.

  “God, help me please,” she whimpered. Almost on cue, Litharus stumbled off her shoulder, smacked into the wall, and slid down like a sack of potatoes. He was snoring, soft, childish snores before he was on the ground.

  “I guess there shouldn’t be anything in this tunnel anyway…” Her voice trailed off in the darkness. Ingrid lingered next to the older boy, dearly wishing he would wake up and tell her what to do. “If he was awake, I wouldn’t have a problem about what to do anyway,” she chided herself. “We could just go back and look for Little Miss Silver Hair together.”

  She sat for a little while and made up her mind. “Watch over him please, Lord,” Ingrid whispered as she reached down through the dark and touched Litharus farewell for the moment. She set off back up the tunnel the way they had already come. One hand on the wall and the other straight out in front, she walked through the complete darkness. Too bad my Blessing is with water and not fire. I could have a nice little flame to see by. Then again, I wouldn’t trade my Blessing for anything.

  Ingrid rolled the situation around in her mind as she crept along in the darkness. Gwyndolyn should have been right behind her the whole time. If Litharus hadn’t been such a burden, Ingrid would have noticed or checked on her. Perhaps she had been a little frustrated that the little girl hadn’t offered to help with the heavy boy, maybe that was why she hadn’t tried to speak to her. Well, they were all paying for her pettiness now. Something must have stopped Gwyndolyn somewhere along the tunnel. Maybe some of the wicked things had found the tunnel’s outside entrance? Maybe some of them got in the door in the sanctuary somehow and followed them, picking off the littlest, easiest target at the back of the line first…

  As Ingrid approached the second corner, she could barely hear a strange rhythmic sound. She was terrified. Was this another one of whatever it was that had been attacking their Sojourner outpost? Images from the one book she had read about abominations and Exiles played through her mind: salivating half-wolf men, giant talking woman-faced spiders, the pack of giant-fanged hare people that thought like one creature, the blood drinkers with their sharp knives, the vulture-headed three-armed warrior Exiles. All of them were waiting for her around the corner in her mind.

  Begging God to help her, she fell into reciting bits of the Holy Scripture inside her mind, “You are my Rock, my Strong Tower, in You I will be saved.” The evil things faded from her mind’s eye. Still though as they faded, their eyes glared at her with malice and bloodlust.

  Carefully and still afraid, Ingrid crept around the edge of the corner. She could immediately tell that the sound was coming from the floor a few yards down the passage. It had a gaspy wheeze and a high whistle. It wasn’t quite regular, with long pauses in it. Ingrid got down on her hands and knees and crept along, clenching her thoughts tight to the scriptures she was repeating in her mind. The sound didn’t change as she approached.

  She was right next to it now, and she felt sure that if it was going to eat or kill her it certainly would have already done it. She reached out very slowly, and felt soft, curly hair. Despite the complete darkness, she knew it was silver.

  “Oh, Gwyndolyn! What happened? Are you passed out like that lug up the hallway?” When the little girl did not respond, Ingrid felt carefully all over her. Except for the fact that she was pitched face forward onto the ground in an odd position, Ingrid could find no problems. The strange sound was coming from Gwyndolyn’s squashed nose. How can she be sleeping like that? She must be exhausted like Litharus. When did she overuse her Blessing?

  The rush of fear left Ingrid as she scooped up her friend in her arms. The little girl did not stir from the sleep that gripped her. Normal exhaustion hit Ingrid like the sanctuary ceiling collapsing, and she struggled mightily to get the littlest of their trio back to the biggest. She breathed deeply and realized that the aroma of cinnamon still clung to Gwyndolyn.

  That morning they had baked cinnamon sweet breads for their families. Some of the sweets were for those who were staying, and some were for those in the faraway city of Fireheart. Ingrid and Gwyndolyn were sending the sweets to the rest of their families who were waiting there. Now, our sweet breads are never going to get there. Only God knows when we’ll get there.

  Ingrid felt little trickles of salty water blaze trails down her cheeks. Her Blessing made them feel alive, like they could speak to her and listen to her commands. But, she had nothing to say to the tears except, “Go away!” Little globs of salt water shot off of her face and splattered on the wall like horizontal rain. She pinched her eyes shut and tried to hold out. But, by the time the she had carried the little Aetherial back to the sleeping Stonewright, the young, lonely Waterwright was weeping uncontrollably.

  Ingrid was the first one to wake, but she had no idea how long it had been. The darkness made everything timeless. Her sleep had been a sleep of grief and worry, so she awoke tired. Litharus and Gwyndolyn were in another state entirely. By overusing their abilities, their own Blessings had drained them of physical, emotional, and spiritual strength. Grown Blesseds like Litharus’s mother and Gwyndolyn’s father were much more adept at managing their gifts, but even they were known to occasionally fall into a deep prolonged sleep. In some cases, usually involving combat, the Blesseds sent themselves into catatonic states from which they could not wake. When Blesseds did wake up after these sorts of incidents, they were always famished as if they had not eaten for many days.

  Ingrid knew she would need to find food for her friends. The wall was rough against her scalp as she leaned back and stared up into the darkness. “Where is Dargar?” she asked aloud to her still snoring companions. Is he still back in the sanctuary trapped under that rock? Was he slain by one of those creatures from that book that I thought were around that corner? He’s supposed to be with us, watching us, protecting us. He said he would in the sanctuary before the fight. He promised.

  Ingrid fought back the surging emotions, trying to control the water that wanted to flow down her face.

  He is the one who should have to find food for these two Sleeping Beauties. Ingrid put her dusty hands over her mouth and breathed out. Her warm breath condensed onto her cool fingers. The moisture and dust gave her hands a clammy, grimy feel. She wiped them off on her travel cloak, happy to have something to occupy her. The task was over too quickly though, and she was right back inside her own head.

  Why did we even stay in the sanctuary? Why didn’t we just run out the tunnel to the village or this one in the first place? Dargar and Haliel would be with us then. Tears of frustration and sadness were welling up in her eyes again. She did not want to admit it, but her next thought had been, If they were here, I wouldn’t have to decide anything.

  God, I was so terrified when that thing came out of that door. I thought that was our way of escape, Lord. That wasn’t your plan I guess. Ingrid sighed heavily and let her head fall forward onto her drawn-up knees. She hugged her legs tight to her chest. Father, what are we going to do now? What am I supposed to do?

  The snores of her friends in the pitch black tunnel was her only answer.

  When not in a self-induced stupor, Litharus was a solid young tactician, or so others had told Ingrid. He had an ex-centurion as a father. Ingrid knew that Litharus’s father was passing on the lessons of a lifetime because Litharus always talked about them. I’d rather have his father here with us than Litharus. Then again, she suddenly thought, His father isn’t Blessed and couldn’t have crushed that Exile in the sanctuary.

  A
groaning from across the tunnel brought Ingrid back from her reverie. “Where are we? Can someone light a candle? Wait, we’d better not be in the tunnel.” Litharus groaned as memories flooded back. “Nevermind, I remember now…” His voice fell silent in the dark.

  “I’m here, and so is Gwyndolyn, but I think she’s still asleep,” answered Ingrid softly.

  “Did Dargar catch up with us yet? He sent us on ahead because he was hurt, but he said he’d follow. How long have I been asleep?” Litharus hoisted himself up into a sitting position, back against the wall of the tunnel.

  “Let me check my hourglass in the complete darkness where we find ourselves trapped.” Ingrid sighed.

  She quickly apologized, “Sorry, I don’t have any idea how long it’s been. And, I don’t know any more about Dargar than you do most likely. Last I saw, he was pinned under what looked like some heavy rocks in the sanctuary.”

  “We should go back and see if he just needs us to help get the rocks off him,” replied Litharus.

  “He very clearly didn’t think it was safe for us to stay around right then and help him. I can’t imagine that the fact he hasn’t been able to follow us yet bodes the least bit well for the safety of the sanctuary.” Ingrid was trying to picture exactly what the situation back in there had looked like when they left. They had not heard any more sounds of further collapse. Perhaps it is stable and safe, she thought. I certainly want Dargar here with us, no matter how badly he’s hurt.

  “Dargar had to fight some sort of monster thing,” came a soft, high almost whisper, as Gwyndolyn injected herself into the conversation. She had awoken silently. “It didn’t seem smart enough to be another Exile. It didn’t even realize he was wearing a Sojourner robe. It was asking him silly questions like he was on the same side. But, I, um… The door closed before I saw the monster thing or what happened. I think it was one of those things from the library. It kind of sounded the same. Dargar was kind of standing though, and he had a weapon.”