Salvation (Scars of the Sundering Book 3)

by Hans Cummings

  “It’s a long story.” The woman picked up her staff. “Let’s go talk to him, make sure he’s amenable to this plan of yours. You might have to bribe him.”

  Delilah pocketed the stone and picked up her staff. “With what?” She tapped on the table to gain her apprentice’s attention and motioned for the young woman to follow them.

  “Katka.” Alysha laughed.

  “What?” Katka’s voice rose to a high pitch.

  “Are you a virgin, by chance? He says they taste sweeter.”

  Delilah caught Alysha’s arm as Katka made strangled cries. “We’re not giving him my apprentice.”

  Alysha threw back her head and laughed. Leaning toward them, she put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’m joking! He doesn’t eat virgins. Besides, why would a virgin taste any different than anyone else? I doubt he’d be able to differentiate between a man and a woman.”

  She shook her head and choked back more laughter. “Come on, you two. Relax.”

  A half dozen times, instructors with requests for Archmage Delilah’s time interrupted their journey across the university’s grounds. She told them in passing to make appointments with Seneschal Lyov and that she would deal with each of them in turn.

  Once they exited the campus, she let Alysha lead the way and fell back to walk alongside her apprentice. “It’ll be a miracle if I have any time at all to give you lessons with all these instructors demanding my time.”

  “I think they all avoided Vilkan. Besides, I’m learning lots from the books you’re letting me read.” Katka’s eyes watched Alysha the way a sheep watches a wolf just outside its pen as they proceeded.

  The Frost Queen slowed her pace as they passed through the market. She turned to the archmage. “You know, for having a dragon just outside their gates, everyone seems awfully calm, don’t you think?”

  Delilah glanced around and shrugged. “Well, maybe they think it’s a wizard thing.” She hadn’t spent enough time around the populace of Muncifer to understand how they handled unusual events.

  Alysha nodded and grinned at a nearby guard. “Impressive dragon, eh?”

  “Thank Tinian it’s gone. We’d have never stood against the beast if it attacked in earnest.” The guard shook his head and strode away from them. Alysha’s expression fell, and she moved to stop him, catching only his cloak.

  “What do you mean, ‘it’s gone’?”

  “You didn’t see?” The guard raised an eyebrow and frowned. “It took off and flew away yesterday shortly before dusk.”

  “No, no, no, no! Why would he do that?” Alysha broke into a sprint, pulling her robes up high to keep her legs from becoming tangled in the fabric. Delilah and Katka chased after her, catching up as she stopped just outside the city gates.

  “Where is my dragon? Yaamkyrsku!” Alysha searched the sky.

  Delilah waited for the Frost Queen to compose herself. Meanwhile, Katka approached one of the gate guards and spoke to her. When she returned, Alysha still fumed, pacing back and forth while muttering to herself.

  “The guard back there”—Katka gestured with her thumb toward the woman—“says she saw two draks walk out there toward the dragon. A little while later, it flew off, and they returned.”

  “Two draks? What?” Delilah’s heart stopped in her chest. “Who?”

  “She said it was too far away to see what happened, but one of the draks, an orange one, seemed really mad. The other one had wings and was following the orange one.”

  Archmage Delilah squeezed her eyes shut. Kale. What did you do?

  “Tell me what I already suspect isn’t true, Archmage.” The Frost Queen’s voice sounded as icy as her title.

  Delilah rubbed her snout and chuckled. “I think we should go talk to my brother.”

  ***

  As the two women traveled north from Ravenbrier Meadery, the road remained in good repair until they passed the fork that veered off toward Verdant Palace. Beyond that, the hard-packed surface became increasingly uneven and muddy. The trees bearing fan-like leaves gave way to thinner, dark-trunked timber with small blade-like leaves. Insects buzzed about them, and the narrow, twisted trunks of the forest angled toward the thoroughfare, like arms pulling them in.

  “That mead woman made it sound like these people were pretty dull.” Qaliah gestured up the road. “Do you really think they’ll be able to tell us anything useful?”

  “I don’t know. If there’s any truth to their stories, it might give us something to go on.” Gisella wiped her brow. The dense foliage trapped the heat, making the muggy day feel even more oppressive. Although she couldn’t see far through the trees, she heard the crash of waves upon rocks to their left and wondered if riding up the beach might provide relief.

  “And if they’re full of beans, then we’ll have squandered the double-dark nights. We know interesting things are happening in the city.”

  “Perhaps.” Gisella, unconvinced the more interesting events were necessarily the more informative ones, turned to face Qaliah. “It’s possible what’s happening in the city is just a diversion.”

  “Because it’ll be seen by more people?”

  “Exactly.” Gisella glanced again at the path.

  Qaliah clicked her teeth together and plucked a bright orange fruit dangling from one of the few trees that bore them in this forest. Juice sprayed as she bit into it. She frowned and spat it out before she threw the rest of the fruit into the underbrush.

  “I wouldn’t eat those. Sour.”

  A few hours after passing the fork to Verdant Palace, they noticed a signpost to the side of the road. Hewn from a curious brown-and-black striped wood and adorned with crude lettering that had been filled in with crushed shells, it read:

  EBONWICK.

  Beyond the sign, Gisella recognized the shape of squat wooden buildings on either side as the path curved toward the sea. “Maybe you should tuck your tail and pull up your hood, Qaliah.”

  The fiendling did as the slayer requested as they spurred their horses forward.

  An old woman watched them as they entered the village. Twisted into long dreadlocks, her grey hair draped over her shoulders and down her back. She chewed on a stick of some sort as she watched them with cloudy eyes set deep into her dark, weathered, pockmarked face.

  Half-timbered huts and shacks flanked the road. Midnight-colored timber sharply contrasted the stark white stone that composed the bottom halves of the buildings. Decorations made of various shells dangled from exposed roof joists. Villagers went about their business with slow, deliberate motions. Some sharpened blades, while others chopped wood. Children sat in circles, scratching the dirt with twigs. Crossing their path, a bare-chested man carried a basket of crabs. He glanced up at them and narrowed his dark eyes.

  “Don’t get many travelers through here. Best turn back. There’s nothing here or further on.”

  Qaliah nudged Gisella. “That means there’s something good.”

  “No.” The man dropped his basket of crabs and stepped forward as he clenched his fists. “There’s nothing good. Go away.”

  Gisella laid her hand on the fiendling’s arm to silence her before dismounting Moonsilver. She held up her hands. “We’re not looking for trouble. We came here hoping to learn about what’s going on in your village.”

  “Morgan!” An older man hobbled out of a nearby shack. He knocked a thick stick against his leg. Gisella noticed the leg was false, a replacement fashioned from the black wood that grew in the area. “Get those crabs to Nyree.”

  Morgan scowled but picked up his creel and rushed across the road, turning down a path that wound between the huts. The older man approached the two women, dragging his artificial limb.

  “Now, here are two young lasses, making trouble.”

  Gisella bowed to the old man. “That was not our intention.”

  “I’ve not seen skin and hair like yours in ages.” He smiled at her. “Which Watch?”

  She touched her hair. “Southern Watch.�
��

  “Ooh.” He shivered and laughed. “Too cold for me. I’m Zeb.”

  “Gisella. This”—she gestured to the still-mounted fiendling—“is Qaliah.”

  The fiendling waved and smiled, her bone-white teeth a flash across her shadowed black skin.

  “Hm. Her skin’s darker than mine. North? Across the sea perhaps? Or north coast of the Wastes?”

  Qaliah dismounted, holding her hood to keep it in place. “Around. Best if we don’t speak of it, I think.”

  “One of those types, eh?” He gestured to the rest of the village. “Well, we don’t have much to offer travelers. If you’re looking for friendly hospitality, you’d best turn around and go back the way you came. I hear there’s a good meadery less than a day south.”

  Gisella took the old man’s arm. “You’re friendly enough. Besides, we’ve already been to the meadery. It’s excellent, by the way.”

  “Other than you, this place is as cheerful as a graveyard.” Qaliah took the reins of their horses and followed behind Gisella and Zeb.

  “Well, we’re just all waiting around to die, so you’re not far off.” He shooed away an approaching young woman who carried a bundle of reeds.

  “Tell us what’s going on. We might be able to help.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” He patted her hand. “We’ve been cursed, it seems. Neither of you look like wizards.”

  “You know what all wizards look like, yeah?” Qaliah clicked her tongue to spur on the horses. The two steeds nickered and whinnied.

  Zeb glanced over his shoulder at the fiendling. “Most wizards I know are either fat and slow or skinny twigs. You’re both muscular. You’ve trained, or worked hard.”

  Gisella regarded the old man. Wrinkles crossed his umber skin, yet his light brown eyes seemed sharp and clear. Fine silver fuzz wrapped around the back of his head where baldness had not yet reached.

  “You’re very astute.”

  “I served as a king’s scout for many years, lass. Been living out my old age right here, where I was born.”

  He led them down the main street of the village. The sun burned over the sea to the west, nearing its final descent for the night. Men dragged nets laden with fish up the beach while others stacked wood at the edge of the sand.

  Gisella recognized the wood heaps to be pyres, a wall of them. The fishermen dashed through gaps that the other workers filled as soon as they passed.

  “Pile that wood high.” One of the men called out to the others. “Second double-dark’s gonna be worse than the first.”

  “What happens at night?” Qaliah tied their horses to a post. Moonsilver tossed her head and whinnied.

  “The fires keep the dead out.” Zeb gestured at the wood heaps and then to the village. “We build them up every night around the whole village.”

  “The dead?” Gisella glanced at Qaliah. “Dead what?”

  Zeb stared into one of the pyres. “Men. Women. Children. Whoever’s dead and buried. They’ve been marching into the sea.”

  “For how long?”

  Gisella’s question went unanswered as bells rang across the village. Stragglers on the beach ran across the pyres as men with torches set them ablaze. Villagers in the streets gathered up their belongings and retreated into their huts and shacks. None of them seemed panicked or frightened. To the Golden Slayer, they seemed resigned.

  “They’re starting. Better get indoors.”

  “They don’t bother you if you’re indoors?” Qaliah fingered one of her daggers.

  “Never cared to find out one way or another.” Zeb pointed at the long building at the end of the street. “The Black Oyster there can put you up for the night. If Cade gives you any lip, just tell him Old Zeb sent you.” He removed his arm from Gisella’s and hobbled away. “Time to keep my wife company. She doesn’t like to spend these nights alone, you know.”

  Gisella watched him limp away before retrieving her spear from Moonsilver. She unhitched her horse and took the lead. “I guess we’re going to the Black Oyster.”

  ***

  When Pancras returned to Vlorey, it was business as usual in the city. He altered his route to the Arcane University to pass the gates to the necropolis, but he saw nothing amiss. He found the four guards stationed outside the gates to be curious, though. Who are they keeping out. Or in? Their expressions did not invite casual conversation, so he passed them and headed to the university.

  The day’s lessons progressed, and he found his pupils to be eager learners. After a few minutes of basic alchemical theory, he determined his students’ proficiency and moved on to more advanced brewing and distilling techniques.

  Pupils in his afternoon class proved to be equally astute, and he ended the day energized to create a lesson plan to challenge them all. After dinner, Pancras retired to the office he shared with the headmaster.

  The tolling of the university’s bell interrupted the minotaur’s concentration as he perused the next day’s agenda. Another bell from outside the university joined it and then another. Within minutes, it sounded as though all the bells in the city were ringing.

  “Headmaster. Headmaster!” Pancras tried to gain the old man’s attention but to no avail. He rapped his knuckles on the top of his desk. The headmaster grunted, stood, and shuffled over to Pancras.

  Headmaster Lewin stifled a yawn. “Yes, what is it?”

  “The bells? For whom do they toll?”

  The headmaster listened. “Hm. Sounds like all of them, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does.” The minotaur glanced out of the nearby window. Night had fallen across Vlorey. Starlight joined what light escaped through the windows and from around the shutters, insufficient to pierce the shroud of darkness night brought to the city. Flickering points of light moved below; torches carried by patrolling guards.

  “Either the king has died, which considering his relative youth and health is unlikely, or it is again a Night of Exodus. How do the King and Queen appear?”

  Pancras stepped over to the window. Usually, he viewed Calliome’s moons from the chancery windows.

  “I cannot see them at all. There are only stars. Double-dark, like last night.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right. I retired early last night. Is it that time again?”

  Headmaster Lewin joined the minotaur at the window. The human’s head stood even with the minotaur’s chest, and he craned his neck to eye Pancras. “Double-dark. Definitely a Night of Exodus.”

  “I’m not familiar with that celebration.” The minotaur rubbed his right horn as he scanned across the university grounds.

  The old man wheezed and coughed. “It’s not a celebration. Some time ago”—he scratched the patch of scruffy whiskers on his chin—“six lunar cycles? Perhaps seven? The dead started leaving the necropolis. Now, that was on the first double-dark night when the unrest began. Guards tried to stop them the first few times, but they would not be deterred. By their second failure, the Council of Lords chose to sound an alarm across the city on double-dark nights ordering all citizens to vacate the streets and allow the dead to exit unfettered.”

  Pancras reached for Shatterskull, hanging at his waist. Finding its space empty, he glanced toward his work area and realized he left it leaning against the side of his desk. “Where do they go? For what purpose do they march?”

  “The council has not deigned to investigate.” Headmaster Lewin pulled over a stool to sit upon. It made him appear even shorter. “We’re not even supposed to speak of it.”

  “That’s madness!” Pancras could not conceive of anyone who would consider corpses rising from graves and marching out of the city unworthy of investigation. “What of the king? He agrees with this decision?”

  The headmaster pursed his lips and shrugged. “I’ve never met the king. It is known that the council keeps much from him. They’re old aristocrats and don’t care for the king’s common origins, you see.”

  “Regardless, they don’t feel walking corpses are a cause for concer
n?”

  “It is a forbidden subject.” Headmaster Lewin glanced around the room, as though checking to ensure they were still alone. “When it was discovered the dead were leaving the city, inadvertently solving the problem of the necropolis filling up, well”—he chuckled—“they saw it as a boon.”

  Pancras pulled over a chair and sat, covering his face with his hands. “How have you humans managed to sustain a civilization?”

  Headmaster Lewin continued laughing. “It isn’t easy. There were objections, of course. Your own temple. The priests of Aita were notably vocal until the council threatened to have them flogged and thrown into the sea for disrupting the peace. That’s when the Council of Lords decreed the Night of Exodus was to be given over to the dead, and any talk of disrupting or interfering in any way was criminalized.”

  The minotaur leaned forward. He placed his hand on Headmaster Lewin’s knee. “It is of vital importance that I find out where they’re going. Aita has spoken to me, and I believe this is related to the undertaking with which she herself has tasked me.”

  “You did not learn this from me.” Headmaster Lewin pointed a shaking finger at Pancras. “There is one who might be able to help: the Lord Justice.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Oh, um… Lord Justicar Fenwick Blackthorne, head of the Order of Justice.” The headmaster chewed his lip. “He answers to the king directly, not the Council of Lords.”

  “He doesn’t have to go through Lord Tyron?”

  “Ha! He despises the man. Fenwick is very public about his dislike for the council’s shenanigans, especially that twit Tyron. But in the interest of keeping peace, he rarely acts against them openly. I believe he has resources at his disposal which may aid you.”

  Pancras chewed his lip as he mulled it over. “Thank you, Headmaster.” Now, at least, he had more information for Gisella when she and the fiendling returned from their journey.

  Chapter 15