The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1)

by Dorian Hart

  Possible, but irrelevant.

  “What do you think of the others?” asked the wizard.

  That was an oddly abrupt change of subject, but she could humor him. They were decent people. Ernie and Tor, the kids, were friendly if naïve. Aravia was a little full of herself and her wizardry, but not so much as to be annoying. Kibi, the soft-spoken one, was hard to get a read on, but she didn’t sense any malice there. Mrs. Horn was quiet but had a wry sense of humor. And Grey Wolf, though rough around the edges, had a rugged, world-weary competence she could appreciate. It didn’t hurt that he was also quite easy on the eyes.

  But Dranko…ugh. He was rough around the edges, rough in the middle, and rough everywhere in between. He was a rude and wholly unpleasant con artist who was obviously lying about being a Deliochan acolyte. His only redeeming feature was an ugliness so profound that it was liable to make him the freak of their group, a role she was all too happy to forgo.

  “I like most of them well enough,” she said. “Except for Dranko. I don’t see why your summoning spell included a boorish drunken felon.”

  “He’s also a Deliochan channeler,” Abernathy pointed out.

  “He wasn’t lying about that?” Morningstar tried to picture Dranko as a pious healer but couldn’t summon up imagery that absurd.

  “I don’t think so, no. I ask about your fellow summonees because they represent something you’ve not had in your adult life, not truly. They will accept you, Morningstar of Ell. They could be your friends and allies, your confidants, even your family if you allow it. They don’t care about your skin, your hair, your name. You might find that quite liberating.”

  Morningstar was good at reading people, but Abernathy—or this shimmering projection of him—was a puzzle. He seemed sincere, but she sensed that he was uncomfortable with his words, like he was reading from a script and hoping its author had his facts straight.

  But for all that, he was right. Somewhere buried beneath her protective layers of emotional detachment was a desire for acceptance. No, that was too strong. Better to call it a curiosity about what acceptance would be like.

  “I’m sorry, Abernathy,” she said quietly. “I’m sure the kingdom is full of people both able and willing to help you, but I’m not one of them.”

  Abernathy gave her a long penetrating look, his eyes shaded nearly purple by his nimbus. She looked back at him, unabashed. What a strange life this old wizard must lead, stranger than hers, and no less lonely. How long had he lived alone in his tower, keeping his monster at bay?

  He quickly turned his head, as if he had heard something unexpected from the next room. “Do as you must,” he said sadly, “but I must return to my work at once.”

  He vanished, a blue flame instantly snuffed.

  So that was settled then. Tomorrow she’d ask Eddings to book her passage back to Port Kymer on a ship departing after sunset. In a few days she’d be back at the temple. As intriguing as this business with Abernathy was, life would return to its normalcy, its isolation.

  Sometime after three o’clock Morningstar drifted to sleep.

  She stands upon a platform atop a narrow spire of rock. The platform is swaying in time to a series of massive booming thunderclaps, as though a giant is striking the base of the spire with a hammer. The tower is going to fall, and if she were real, if she were truly standing there, she would plummet to her death.

  A man is standing at one edge of the platform, a man plated in red mail. He ignores her—she is not truly there, in this dream—and looks south over a hazy ocean. In one hand he holds a shimmering black sword, and in the other is a polished gem-studded horn. His face is cruel and triumphant, a combination Morningstar finds troubling. He seems unconcerned with the spire’s oscillations.

  “This seems like a great deal of trouble to go through, Forkbeard,” he says to the air. “And my master is not entirely convinced any of this is necessary. He thinks his victory is already inevitable.”

  Another thunderbolt rocks the tower.

  “But it’s quite the spectacle, either way,” he murmurs. “Even more so if you’re wrong about how this will end.”

  “I think you’ll be surprised about how this ends,” says another voice. It’s Tor, who has appeared on the far side of the platform. Tor charges at the man in red armor, crashing into him and sending both hurtling off the edge.

  Morningstar sat bolt upright in her bed, drenched in sweat, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. Late morning light spilling in the window immediately blinded her; she threw an arm across her eyes and staggered to draw the curtains. It took almost five minutes for her vision to return.

  A Seer-dream! Certain sisters were Dreamseers, trained to interpret dreams and provide guidance based upon those interpretations. All Ellish priestesses understood that some dreams were prophetic though usually in small or ambiguous ways.

  Dreamseers were also, on rare occasions, granted prophetic dreams of their own, called Seer-dreams. They had been described to her as unusually vivid, and unlike most dreams which burned off like morning mist, Seer-dreams were as easily remembered afterward as any waking experience. Not for a second did she doubt that was what this was. She could still hear the sound of the thunderous booms, as clearly as if she had been there.

  Would she tell the others? Morningstar was unused to sharing…anything, really. Opinions, revelations, spiritual experiences, even mundane pleasantries had been too often turned back on her by her Ellish sisters. For something as intensely personal as a Seer-dream, all of her instincts warned her to keep it to herself.

  But then there was the boy. She didn’t see him strike the ground, but the implication was clear enough. Should she warn young Tor about what she saw? Seer-dreams could be anything from obscure metaphors to near-literal foretellings. She ought to tell him, though he’d probably forget all about it before lunch.

  Downstairs Dranko and Tor were sitting together at the living room table. Dranko was pulling on a cigar, the smoke of which was so thick and heavy that it curled downward to form a spreading cloud by the floor. Tor was methodically stacking coins. Mrs. Horn was curled up on a couch nearby, sewing up a hole in a sock that wasn’t hers. The old woman looked up at her.

  “Are you feeling well, dear?” Mrs. Horn glanced at the window and shook her head. “This won’t do at all. Boys, we need to remember that Morningstar isn’t used to sunlight.” She carefully set down her needle and thread, crossed the room, and drew the curtains across the bay windows. “There’s still plenty of light for you two to enjoy your coins.”

  Morningstar nodded gratefully to Mrs. Horn. “Thank you.”

  The old woman smiled as she sat back down. “We all need to look out for one another, now that we’ve been thrown together.”

  Dranko gestured proudly at the table. “I’m looking out for us.”

  There was quite a lot of money there—the pile included at least twelve crescents, plus a handful of silver talons and copper chits. Dranko took a long draw from his cigar and blew out a downward-streaming slug of dark smoke. “You know that owl Abernathy gave us? Turns out those ruby eyes were the real deal. Figured there was no point in waiting to turn that birdie into some seed capital. Now you can buy yourself a blindfold.”

  “I’m not staying,” she told him. “Abernathy tried his best to convince me, but it’s not going to work.”

  “Shame,” said Dranko. “What about you, Grey Wolf?”

  Morningstar turned to see Grey Wolf on her heels. He wrinkled his nose. “I have a favor to ask. How about no cigars in the…wait. Is that gold?”

  “Dranko sold Abernathy’s owl this morning.” Tor flipped a gold crescent to Grey Wolf, who caught it deftly.

  “Right,” said Grey Wolf. “And Dranko, I’m sure you wouldn’t have held anything back for yourself. Yes?”

  “I could argue that I deserve a small fee for my service,” said Dranko. Grey Wolf took a step forward, but Dranko held up his hands. “I could argue that, but I won’t. I promis
e you, every last chit is on the table.”

  “I’m counting it so we can divvy it up fairly,” said Tor.

  Dranko gave Grey Wolf a toothy smile. “So, Mr. Wolf, will you be staying on as part of Abernathy’s team?”

  Grey Wolf looked thoughtfully at the coin. “For a little while, at least. Abernathy told me that a…personal goal of mine may be easier to achieve if I join this merry band. So I agreed to give him a couple of weeks, see if there’s any progress.”

  “Going to share?” asked Dranko.

  “No.”

  Morningstar did not fault Grey Wolf for not being the sharing type. And on the subject of sharing, should she tell Tor about her Seer-dream now, or wait until they were in private?

  Eddings came in from the dining room. “Ah, Lady Morningstar. A letter arrived for you, not more than an hour ago.” From his jacket pocket he pulled a slim black envelope.

  A letter from the temple? A swift rejection of Abernathy’s query, she assumed. She tore open the envelope and read.

  Sister Morningstar,

  We have learned of your changed circumstances, and your recent employment by the Archmage Abernathy of Tal Hae. Though I do not personally condone it, the High Priestess Rhiavonne in Kallor has allowed you special dispensation to walk abroad in daylight and to suspend any other church traditions that may conflict with your duties in the service of the archmage, so long as they do not violate specific temple laws. This dispensation shall be in effect until you and the Archmage Abernathy together agree that your service to him has finished; until then, the High Priestess prefers that you remain based in Tal Hae and follow the archmage’s instructions.

  Morningstar, I know this will be a difficult transition for you, but we all must do as Ell demands, and the High Priestess Rhiavonne speaks with Her voice on this matter. We will miss you at the temple.

  May the Goddess guide you,

  Sister Fithawn

  The blood pounded in Morningstar’s ears. Her skin prickled. Her eyes swept over the letter, two times, three times.

  …walk abroad in daylight…

  …suspend any other church traditions…

  …High Priestess Rhiavonne speaks with Her voice…

  “No,” she whispered. “They wouldn’t…”

  “Wouldn’t do what, dear?” asked Mrs. Horn. Morningstar raised her head; the others were looking at her expectantly.

  “I…they…”

  How could she explain it? Though her sisters didn’t like her, or were scared of her, the Ellish temple was her identity, her lifeblood, her foundation. We will miss you at the temple, Fithawn had written. But what had been left unwritten was …because you will not be welcomed back. How could she be, if she walked beneath the sun?

  This was going to confirm every suspicion that had ever been leveled at her, that she was not truly a sister, that she had no place in the black halls of Ell, that she had been a mistake. For those who had wanted to see the White Anathema expelled, Abernathy’s summons had provided the perfect excuse.

  Worst of all, there would be no appeal to authority. The High Priestess Rhiavonne was the mortal leader of the Ellish religion in Charagan, and for sisters her decrees carried as much weight as the laws of the kingdom itself.

  A roiling anger filled her. Her armor of composure shattered under a blow like none she’d ever faced.

  She couldn’t keep her voice from trembling. “I need to speak to Abernathy. Alone.”

  Morningstar stormed from the dining room and rushed to the secret chamber with the crystal ball. “Abernathy!” she demanded. “I need to speak with you.”

  The glass ball filled with mist, and after a minute Mister Golem’s face appeared. The thing’s emotionless visage enraged her. “Not you,” she snapped. “I want to talk with Abernathy.”

  “Is this an emergency severe enough to require his immediate attention?”

  “Yes. I want his immediate attention.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Mister Golem’s face vanished into the fog of the crystal ball. Soon Abernathy’s aged face looked out at her. His stringy white hair was plastered to his cheeks with sweat, and his torso heaved with heavy breath, as though he had sprinted up several flights of stairs to answer her call.

  “Morningstar,” he panted. “What has happened? Quickly, please.”

  Morningstar held up the letter. “What is this? What have you done?”

  Abernathy’s face grew larger in the crystal ball. “Is that a letter?”

  “It’s from my temple! It allows me to go out during the day running your errands.”

  “Er…oh. That was faster than I had expected. I’m pleased to hear it!”

  Morningstar nearly hurled the crystal ball against the wall. “Pleased to…Abernathy, you’ve effectively had me thrown out of the temple! Kidnapping me was one thing, but this…this is…you’ve ruined my life!”

  Abernathy’s wrinkled face grew grave. “You were thrown out of your temple? That was not my intent, dear girl. I only requested that you be given more latitude in your work for me, so that your obligations would not clash with those of your religion.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Now, I don’t mean to belittle your anger, but is there some disaster or problem such that you truly need my immediate help? Because I need to return to my work right away.”

  “No.” She spat the word, her fury blunted though hardly diminished. “Go back to what you were doing. Keep your prison door closed.”

  She walked haltingly down the stairs and wished there were someone else nearby deserving of her rage. Tor looked up from his coins, and without thinking she said, “Tor, I had a dream about you last night. A Seer-dream.”

  Tor immediately reddened.

  “Hey, I had a dream too!” said Dranko. “But not everyone in it was fully clothed, so you might not want to hear about it.”

  Goddess, but the goblin was relentlessly vile.

  “What’s a Seer-dream?” asked Tor.

  “A dream that is prophecy.” This was good to talk about. It was something else to talk about. She willed herself into a semblance of calm.

  “Dreams are prophetic?” Dranko showed a tusky grin. “Then I know one fellow who’s gettin’ lucky sometime soon, if you know what I mean.”

  Morningstar ignored him, and looked Tor in the eyes. “There are sisters of Ell who are Dreamseers. They are tasked to interpret the dreams of others, but sometimes they have their own dreams that mark the future.”

  “And you’re one?” asked Tor.

  “No,” said Morningstar. “I’m not a Dreamseer, or wasn’t until today. But last night I dreamt the future, and you were in it.”

  “Neat!” said Tor. “What happened? What’s my future?”

  “Do you mind if the others hear?” She could at least offer him the choice of privacy.

  “No, I don’t mind! Tell me!”

  And Morningstar did, including every detail she remembered, which was all of them.

  No one spoke when she was finished; they were all looking at Tor. Defying all expectation, he smiled hugely.

  “That’s great! I’ll bet the guy in the armor will be up to no good, and our job will be to stop him, and I’ll push him off the edge and kill him before he does his evil deeds. Maybe he’s even the monster Abernathy has locked away!”

  Did Tor not understand? “But in my dream, you die too,”

  “Did you see me hit the ground?”

  “No, but—”

  “That must have been on purpose! I bet I land on something soft, or I grab onto a flagpole or something. Thanks, Morningstar! It sounds like Abernathy was exactly right. Adventure, glory, excitement, we’re going to have it all!”

  Morningstar sighed. “Tor, you should take this more seriously. Not just my dreams, but all of it. Didn’t you hear Abernathy? I think we won’t be going on picnics in the park.”

  “We?” asked Dranko. “So Abernathy convinced you to tag along? What about you staying inside all
day?”

  The Goddess knew that she didn’t owe Dranko, of all people, any explanation, but now the others were looking at her. Aravia, Ernie, and Kibi had even come in from the dining room. She was suddenly too weary to deflect or dissemble.

  “The letter from my temple. It gives me permission to travel outside before dark.”

  “Uh, isn’t that good?” asked Dranko.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “True. So why don’t you explain it to us.”

  There was mockery in his voice, she was sure of it. She flailed about for her island, her rock of equanimity, a swimmer caught in an unexpected undertow. Was Dranko any worse than the cruelest of her sisters? No. He was just a revolting street thug trying to get a rise out of her.

  Anger was filling her. “One of the defining traditions of our church is that we do not allow the sun’s rays to touch us. It reminds us of how we are different and of the role we play in society. I am a Shield of Ell. My path was that of protector, against the dangers that come in the dark, against the creatures that prey on the sleeping. But now all of that is gone.”

  The tide surged. The rock was slipping from her fingers.

  “All of that is gone,” she repeated. “I was always one step away from being pushed out.” She grabbed the end of one white lock of hair and shook it at Dranko. “I was already an outsider! The Goddess gave me a sunlit name! Morningstar? She might as well have named me Pariah! And this!” She held up her arms, pale as moonlit snow. “I was born an outcast, and now Abernathy has made it stick. A sister who walks in the sun is no sister at all, and every single one of my peers is nodding to themselves right now and saying it was all for the best. Morningstar was never meant to be one of us. And now she’s not. I’m not. Now I’m one of you instead.”

  Dranko took a deep breath.

  Don’t speak to me, goblin.

  But he did. “Do you have so little faith in Ell that you don’t think She has a plan for you? You don’t think She gave you your hair and your skin and your name for a reason? Ell wouldn’t torture one of Her own children, even if she had a tendency to whine. Have a little faith.”