The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1)

by Dorian Hart

  “The Ellish temple is not known for its trusting nature. I can ask, but the Chroniclers are going to want to know why I want this information, and there’s a good chance they won’t believe anything I say about Naradawk and his otherworld prison.” Her face grew taut as she added, “And if any of my reputation has leaked across the bay from Port Kymer to Tal Hae, it’s not going to help our chances.”

  “Morningstar, you’re a practical person,” said Grey Wolf. “We’ve seen that recently. You’ll still ask them, won’t you?”

  Morningstar nodded, her face neutral. “Yes, I’ll ask. I’ll go over there tonight. The worst they can do is…well, they can laugh and shut the door in my face. And tomorrow morning we’ll have breakfast, wave at the sun, and pay these Seven Mirrors a visit. Don’t want to miss Flashing Day, do we?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TEMPLES TO THE Goddess Ell, large or small, shared a distinct architectural style that went beyond their monochromatic color scheme. Yes, they were painted uniformly black, such that persons not raised in darkness would perceive them as disquietingly featureless. But with her darksight, Morningstar could see that oversized upside-down triangles embellished the side walls, along with impressive pointed tympana speckled with smaller triangular adornments. The point-down black triangle was the holy symbol of the Ellish religion, representing the shield of darkness that would protect the innocent from nocturnal dangers.

  No lamps or torches burned around the Tal Hae cathedral’s exterior, and its position in the city, nestled among other tall buildings, shielded it (quite intentionally) from more distant ambient light, but its detail was clear enough. Its familiar designs gave Morningstar comfort; they confirmed her time with Horn’s Company had not diminished her darksight.

  The triangles might also have reminded her that the dictates and will of the Goddess were a constant, no matter the petty judgments of the sisters who served Her. But after the Mouth of Nahalm, she suspected more than ever that the judgment of Ell Herself had already been passed against her.

  As she approached the dark front door and knocked, her apprehension grew. Had her reputation arrived here before her? She breathed deeply and sought for inner calm.

  The door opened. A young novice stood in the doorway, black hair cut short.

  “Good midnight,” said Morningstar.

  “And to you.” The girl, no older than fifteen, stared at Morningstar, puzzled. Morningstar was wearing her Ellish robes but probably looked like an imposter with her snow-white hair and sunburned skin.

  “I am Sister Morningstar from Port Kymer. I am here to speak with the Chroniclers. May I enter?”

  The novice looked distinctively uncomfortable. “Oh, yes, forgive me. I am Sister Adriana. Please, sister, come in. I am sorry that you have missed the start of the midnight service, though you are welcome to attend what remains of it.”

  Morningstar stepped into the darkened narthex and instinctively let her fingertips trail along the walls. Like the Ellish buildings in Port Kymer, the cathedral here featured tactile artwork at elbow height, black-on-black but textured so it could also be “seen” with one’s fingertips.

  “I would be honored,” she said. Morningstar couldn’t help but feel nervous. On the one hand she might be better accepted after taking part in the temple’s holy traditions. On the other, being seen by more sisters increased the chance that she would be recognized, or at least be made an object of unwanted curiosity. Sister Adriana led her into the back of the nave, where she sat as unobtrusively as possible on a short padded bench. To her left, high up in a loft, was a choir three times the size of the one at Port Kymer. Its sound was hauntingly lovely, the hymn a traditional chant on a common theme: venerating Ell and Her role in allowing the Traveling Gods to escape the Great Adversary.

  According to scripture, the Traveling Gods had fought a long and terrible war against the Great Adversary, in which most of the Gods had been slain. Only six survived, but those half dozen were able to imprison the Adversary before fleeing across the universe to the world of Spira. Ell’s role had been to weave a net of impenetrable blackness about the Adversary’s head, so that He stumbled blindly into His prison while the other Gods gathered Their mortal flocks for the journey. Afterward those six Gods—Ell, Brechen, Werthis, Delioch, Corilayna, and Uthol Inga—arrived on this new world and reached an accord with Pikon, god of the fields, who already claimed the native mortals of Spira as His own.

  Morningstar found the notion of warring Gods to be hopelessly abstract, but there was a disturbing parallel between Abernathy’s locked-up monster and the Gods’ imprisoned Adversary. She shook her head. It was extremely unlikely that the archmagi had, literally, a God-killer held captive.

  There were more than three dozen sisters attending the midnight service, and some of these had turned around on their benches to look at her. Now two were leaning and whispering to one another. She sat up straighter. So what if she attracted attention, she decided. Let them think what they would.

  When the songs had been sung, the prayers uttered, the devotions made, and the service ended, Morningstar stood and stretched while the sisters dispersed. A tall woman approached, appearing from a transept. She was older, perhaps in her early forties, and wore a disapproving frown.

  “Sister Morningstar?”

  Morningstar sighed at the undisguised contempt, but she retained her poise.

  “I am,” she said. “The service was lovely. I’m impressed by the chorale. Our singers at Port Kymer are not half as well trained.”

  “I’m sure your sisters back home will enjoy your criticisms,” said the sister.

  “I’m sorry,” said Morningstar. “We haven’t been introduced.”

  “I am Sister Corinne. Adriana tells me you are here to speak to the Chroniclers. Might I know your business with them?”

  “I wish to learn about a certainly legendary creature,” Morningstar said cautiously.

  “Being one yourself?”

  Morningstar blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “What happened to your face? It almost looks as though you have been out in the sun.”

  You have no idea. But I’m not about to share anything with you, Sister Corinne.

  “Yes, it does look that way.”

  “I know who you are, Morningstar. I have heard the tales from Port Kymer of the White Anathema. We had hoped you would never come here, bringing the disfavor of Ell with you. I hope your stay is short.”

  Morningstar’s emotional armor held. She thought again of her blistering march across the Mouth of Nahalm and what it meant to suffer truly the disfavor of Ell. She smiled thinly. “I hope so too. If you could point me toward the library, I can make my own way, and you need not suffer my presence any longer.”

  Sister Corinne gestured toward a door near the left side of the narthex. “Through that door, down the stairs. The library is in the basement. Ask for Sister Previa.” Corinne turned her back and strode off without any of the customary parting words or gestures.

  * * *

  The Tal Hae archive lived up to its billing; it was enormous, stretching nearly the entire length of the cathedral, several dozen arched vaults connected by short stone walkways and miniature flights of stairs. Morningstar inhaled the scents of dust and parchment as she wandered through the vaults, and it was several minutes before she found a librarian.

  “I am looking for Sister Previa.” She kept her voice polite but braced for the inevitable.

  “You have found her.” The woman was slight and plain-faced, her black hair tied up in a bun skewered with a pair of ebony sticks. She peered at Morningstar with obvious curiosity.

  “I am Sister Morningstar of Port Kymer,” she said. “I wish to commission some research.”

  Previa smiled at her. “You are the infamous Sister Morningstar? Have you come to throw me into the sun?”

  “No,” said Morningstar, taken aback. “The sun is much too far away for that.”

  Previa gave a little laugh. �
�Thank the Goddess.” She looked Morningstar up and down. “From the stories, I expected the White Anathema to be brandishing unholy fire and threatening us with curses. I’m disappointed.”

  The Morningstar back at Port Kymer wouldn’t have known how to react to someone sharing a friendly jest, but her time with Horn’s Company had given her some practice.

  “I make it a point to not bring unholy fires into libraries,” she said.

  “A wise policy,” Previa agreed.

  Morningstar glanced back toward the stairwell. “I met Sister Corinne after midnight services. From her attitude, I thought I might find myself unwelcome to everyone here.”

  Previa smiled again, a wide, warm smile. “Only to the small-minded among us. We’ve all heard about Sister Morningstar, the White Anathema of Port Kymer, but the rumors only made me think there must be a poor white-haired sister there with a great deal of patience. I apologize for any mistreatment you endure here in Tal Hae, but I assure you it won’t come from me. Now, how may the Chroniclers be of service to you?”

  In Port Kymer, other than her Shield trainer Clariel, the sisters had all been either coldly distant or overtly disdainful. Could she have found a true ally among the Ellish sisterhood?

  “I find myself in unusual circumstances,” she began. She hadn’t intended to share any more about herself than was necessary, but faced with such plain acceptance, the words spilled forth before she could stop them. “The High Priestess Rhiavonne has given me dispensation to walk beneath the sun and ordered that I work under the Archmage Abernathy for the good of the kingdom. In that capacity, I am here to learn about some topics that have arisen.”

  She stopped and bit her tongue. Previa was staring at her with wide eyes. Had she ruined this nascent could-be friendship by admitting too much truth?

  “Goddess,” Previa breathed. “I’ve never…I mean, I can’t imagine…”

  “It’s every bit as unpleasant as it sounds,” said Morningstar.

  Previa shook her head. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sure that’s not doing your reputation any favors,” Previa added.

  “I haven’t told anyone else within the sisterhood,” said Morningstar. “And I’d prefer it stay private, if you don’t mind.”

  Previa looked at her thoughtfully. “Of course. Interesting times we live in, no?”

  “Previa, I’ve been out of my temple for some weeks now. What do you mean?”

  “Of course, you wouldn’t know then. The Dreamseers have been having the same recurring Seer-dreams of late, of some huge object, like a meteor, streaking out of the sky and smashing into Spira. In some of these dreams the object is a deadly, decidedly non-Ellish black, and in others it is blindingly white. The Seers also argue about whether these are augurs of the future or visions of the past. No one knows what to make of it.”

  Morningstar almost blurted out that she too had been recently made a Dreamseer, but she had shared enough secrets already.

  “It’s interesting,” Previa continued. “I’ve never heard of a sister granted full permission to walk in daylight, but here you are…”

  “You think I’m the white meteor?”

  “The thought did occur to me. But if you are, don’t smash up my library. Now, please, how may I help you in my official capacity?”

  Morningstar started with only two requests: that Previa find out what she could about Eyes of Moirel and Blood Gargoyles. Previa showed immediate and keen interest and promised she could dig something up within days.

  “I’ll send what I find to the Greenhouse,” she promised. “And you should feel free to return here, either for more information or just to talk. This is your home as much as it is mine, Morningstar of Ell. Don’t let the Corinnes of the world convince you otherwise.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IT WAS A pleasant enough week’s walk from Tal Hae to the Seven Mirrors, but Kibi usually fell behind. That didn’t surprise him any; he was always a slow hiker, slow but steady, rolling along like a boulder. The long hours didn’t bother him, and he enjoyed the lush countryside, greening peacefully in the spring sunshine. The road was muddy in places, enough that it was quicker to walk instead through the damp grass beside it.

  On the fourth day out from the city, when Kibi was lagging a bit after lunch, Ernie slowed his own pace and dropped back to walk next to him. Good lad, that Ernest Roundhill. The boy had a good heart and worried whenever one of his companions suffered. Not that Kibi was suffering, but each time the others got too far ahead, Ernie would check on him, making sure he wasn’t cramping and reminding him to drink every few minutes.

  “I’m fine, son,” he said as Ernie fell into stride with him. “Jus’ walkin’ an’ thinkin, like usual. Always had heavy legs, my ma would say, but I’ll get as far as the rest a’ ya ’fore the day’s out.”

  Kibi never went out of his way to seek company. It wasn’t that he disliked people, but he couldn’t ever think of what to say to them. Other folk moved through life too quickly, not just when they walked, but in how they acted toward one another or in seeking to meet their own needs and desires. It was hard to be social with folk hurrying past on either side. Life would always come to you, he found. No need to rush out and grab it.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” said Ernie. “About our gold circles. Did you really never find out where your mother came from?”

  Ah, there it was. Kibi had wondered when Ernie would get around to starting this conversation. Between the boy’s natural shyness and his own reticence, they hadn’t talked much about their newfound connection.

  Kibi smiled a little to let Ernie know he was being sociable. “Nope.”

  “Why do you think she has a matching ring to the one they found buried on a statue of me?”

  That was a stumper all right. Kibi had let himself be convinced that they were two different rings, but that just raised a different set of questions.

  “Suppose they must’ve been made by the same person, long time ago. My ma got hold a’ one, and the other got put on your statue.”

  “And do you really think your mom would…that she needs to wear hers all the time? To keep her alive?”

  Kibi shrugged. “She certainly seems to think so.” He always found it odd that his father, Bim, a man ordinarily disdainful of Godless superstition, never challenged his mother about the gold circlet. His mother Gela had insisted, with a terrified urgency, that her bracelet needed to stay on her wrist every minute of her life. She could never explain why but said it was just as important to her as breathing.

  “Kibi,” said Ernie, “that night we were all summoned to Abernathy’s tower, you said you had some kind of trick you could do with stone, that was kind of like magic but wasn’t. What did you mean?”

  Kibi’s face flushed beneath his beard. Had he really said that? He must have been flustered by being in such a strange circumstance. What he did with stone was personal, a secret he had long kept. And it wasn’t really a trick, anyways.

  “Not sure I can explain it. Jus’…me and the rock, we got an understandin’. Ain’t nothin’ too special, I guess.”

  Ernie smiled. “I think you’re being modest, Kibi. Is it something you can show me?”

  He opened his mouth to tell Ernie he’d rather not, that it wasn’t something he did in front of other people. But Mrs. Horn would have told him not to be so closed up about it. And besides, Ernie was so inoffensive, and now they had a strange connection, and surely it wouldn’t harm anything. Everything was different now. He was on a team, had to work with people instead of stone.

  “I guess. Ain’t much, but I can show ya.”

  He bent and pried a rock from the mud at the side of the road, a chunk of brown chert the size of a plum. It had been in the ground here a long, long time, and had only worked its way up to the surface in the past fifty years or so. No one had ever picked it up before now.

  Gently he kneaded the stone, and it became soft bene
ath his fingers. He pressed and squeezed it, shaping it like a sculptor, knowing by instinct where to apply pressure so as not to break it apart. Over the course of a minute he transformed the many-faceted, asymmetric piece of rock into a round flat disc. Then he ran his finger over its newly smooth surface, tracing the letter E, and the letter was carved upon the stone from just the lightest touch. When he was done, the rock was pleased with its new shape, and Kibi thanked it silently for its cooperation. He couldn’t change a rock without its approval, after all.

  He handed it to Ernie, who stood with his mouth agape.

  “Ain’t nothin’ really,” Kibi said. “And it ain’t magic, not like what Aravia does, or Abernathy. It’s jus’ me and the rock reachin’ an agreement a’ sorts. Can’t explain any better’n that.”

  “I think it’s incredible!” said Ernie. “Can I keep this?”

  “Wouldn’t a’ put your initial on it otherwise.”

  * * *

  The Seven Mirrors rose like upthrust fingers out of the grass, jet-black obelisks reaching for the afternoon sun. They formed a perfect seven-pointed ring nearly a hundred feet across, and each massive plinth towered a hundred feet in the air, a dark giant casting a long shadow over the plains.

  Kibi worked his way through the crowds to get a better look at them; after walking a week to see this place, he had built up some high expectations. Ernie said the nearest town was over ten miles away, but Flashing Day attracted throngs of commoners from all the regional villages: Tal Inniston, White Ferry, Greentree, even from Tal Werek over thirty miles distant. It was a tradition hundreds of years old according to Ernie; men, women, and children gathered at the circle of stones, pitched tents, made picnics, danced and sang songs, and treated the whole thing like a festival holiday.

  “My father used to bring a cart from White Ferry and sell bread,” Ernie said, “though we haven’t been back in several years. It got to be too much of a bother, coming all this way.”