by Steve Rzasa
“Oh? So you’ve accepted the Lord’s help.” He’s searching the spines, fingers dancing along the volumes nearest him on the shelves.
“I grudgingly made use of the ice. There was no help involved.”
Evan frowns. “Magic is not to be toyed with, Bowen. It is a gift from the Most High, regardless of how it was twisted and ruined when all fell into Shadow. But a man of faith can redeem such magic, wield it in service of the Bringer of Light.”
“You’d best keep looking for clues and save the homily for the pulpit, Father.” I slosh wine about the inside of the goblet. It looks like blood, and leaves a burn in the belly. I wonder if Niall is discovering its delicacy at this moment. Or if he’s leaving us—everyone at Jasna Góra—any food in the pantry. “I did no such service to anyone. Summoning is a curse, a blight on a man’s soul and body.”
“That is not true.”
“Isn’t it? What good did the ice do me when all I wanted was for Cassia to recover? Do you know the tales—of ice placing a person into a deep sleep until she could be cured of her ailment, staving off death?”
Evan nods.
“Rubbish,” I snap. “I tried. I begged. The ice would not heed. It made her too cold—so much so I had to relinquish the summoning and let the fever come back. I had to let her die.”
Evan doesn’t flinch from my anger. “I cannot bear to think of how my heart would pain if my wife and family were lost to me, Bowen, but it does not mean that magic is a curse.”
I take a bigger slug of wine. “These are well-flown skies for us, Father. Let us steer around them this time.”
“Understood. I don’t suppose you’ll reconsider training.”
“No. I will not.”
Evan sighs. “Well, even the Son had his thick-headed followers, and they came to believe.”
“I beg pardon. Did you just call me thick-headed?”
“Insinuated. Ah. Aha!” Evan grunts and slides a huge tome from its space on the shelf, at the edge of his reach. Dust billows out, settling on me in a cloud. Evan grapples with the book, which is as broad as my chest and thicker than my fist. The cover is tattered, with gaping brown patches where the gild has worn away. Flakes of yellowed paper fall like snow.
“Here.” I join him on the ladder and grab one of the edges. We set the tome down on the table. It makes a whump against the wood.
“Yes. Well. This should prove most useful. The Philadelphian Codex. I might have known. What have you to enlighten us, o brethren from millennia lost?” He pages gently through, murmuring as to a sleeping infant. I’ve seen this determination on his face countless times before. He will find the answer, no matter how long he must plumb the ancient writings for their secrets.
“What do you think it is, Father? The Bloodheart, I mean.” I scrape the goblet’s edge along the table. It’s empty.
“I don’t know. There are countless legends, of course, of relics empowered by the soulmages through the strength of the Most High. There are tales of others so steeped in darkness the beholder can kill dozens with a thought. I’d not approach either without a legion of the faithful at my beck and call.” Evan’s eyes scan from paragraph to paragraph as bees hunt pollen from flower to flower.
I gaze up at the stained glass windows. Sunset is upon us. It was always Cassia’s favorite hour of the day, and I sat in this room many times at dusk to remember her. Even as the fever drew her life out from her, Cassia wanted me to carry her to the door of our home, every dusk, to see the sunlight fade. She said it reminded her that all things in this mortal realm end, but that beyond the dark of night is the dawn of a new day. A world without end, she called it.
She said she prayed for that new day. For my sake, as well as hers.
I throw my goblet across the room. It bangs off the bookshelves, and clatters across the terra cotta tiles on the floor.
Evan glances up. “Cassia’s memory still haunts you, son.”
No pat on the back, no soothing platitudes. Just the old, blunt Evan I’d come to love more than kin. “Yes, always.”
“Well. Take solace that she is home with the Triune One. I know you think it an empty tale, Bowen, but it be as true and real as this.” He pinches the skin on his knuckles.
“A fine lesson.” Icy prickles return. I shake them off.
“You’re in constant need of reminder, I …” His voice trails off. His finger pounces on the text. “My word. Aha! This excerpt tells of the Bloodheart that safeguarded an entire isle from attack. The enemy’s attacks were for naught.”
The vision of the charred dead of Applemont sickens me.
“But it was not the Bloodheart alone. It says here the people had combined the Bloodheart with the Father’s Tear. And to it was added the Spirit’s Flame. Together the three became one. And pure light held darkness at bay.”
The words chill me, not the least because of the way Evan’s voice rings strong in the vaulted room. He sits opposite me and rubs his beard. “Bowen, a word of caution: Do not sell this relic of yours.”
“Sorry, who said it was for sale?”
Evan chuckles. “I’m not as dull as I look. Many seasons have passed between us without so much as a word spoken or written, but I know you burn with the need for treasure, for adventure, as surely as you did when you lit out from here those years ago.”
He places a hand reverentially on the book. “But this Bloodheart is no mere trinket. This is the power of the Most High at work. If it were not the soulmages would not have hidden its parts.”
I drum my fingers on the table. Niall will object to any loss of profit; Ariya, less so. She sees the value of more than money. What about my value? And what of Luc? “I don’t know what to do with the boy, either, Father.”
“If he lived among soulmages, it is likely he was one, or at least hailed from their bloodline.”
“It would explain much. His ways… confound me.” A memory leaps to the front of my thoughts. “He was the only one who could reach the Bloodheart. It burned Niall. None of the rest of us tried. I thought nothing of it at the time…”
“It is sealed against the unworthy,” Evan murmurs.
I shall not mention that to Niall. “But if they were soulmages, why could a band of corsairs so easily kill them?”
Evan ponders this. “What was the name of the island?”
“Applemont.”
At that he makes a swift sign of the cross, using the first two fingers of his right hand pinched against his thumb. His eyes are wide. “So. The banished ones.”
“Who?”
“Soulmages who defied the decree to not use magic for the wrong purposes.”
“Such as, say, animating rock into a golem?”
“Most assuredly.” Evan folds his arms. “So they were the ones who watched over the Bloodheart.”
“It seems odd your Church would entrust a banished community with such a powerful relic.”
“Misdirection, I suppose.” Evan sighs. “They would have retained some skill, not been stripped of all their ability to touch magic. But they also may have chosen to not resist. To turn the other cheek.”
My heart clenches. So that women and children could die? And how did Luc escape?
“Something still bothers you, Bowen.”
“Every cursed thing bothers me. What would you do, knowing all this?”
“You would have me abscond with the last of my common sense and join you on a grand adventure? Oh, but were I young and without the ties of kin.” He smiles wanly. “Truthfully, I would bury this Bloodheart in our deepest vaults, and task the most powerful soulmages to stand guard day and night. But that’s not what should be done.”
“You would have me reunite the parts.”
Evan nods. “Can’t you feel the darkness encroaching on these lands? Corsairs become bolder. Black warships sail from Northamber into the reaches of other kingdoms. Fell beasts press in our lands. Ah, but perhaps you’re insulated from those things up in the clouds. Down here we protect the p
eople of this valley to our best, and keep the knowledge contained in these walls safe. Our scribes see to that in other ways, besides the obvious.”
I stand from the table. “There’s no need to pile on guilt for ballast.”
“I simply tell you the truth. That’s all I’ve ever done. Surely you have heard in your travels that summoners are becoming more active.”
I enfold my hands in my cloak. They’re quite cold. “I’ve not paid heed.”
“Oh? Then perhaps you haven’t seen the missives come from Pons Aelius as far south as here, even further, gathering summoners to the royal court of Northamber.” Evan scowls. “There is danger in these times, Bowen. I fear the king of Northamber does not require summoners for parlor trickery. He wants men like you as weapons in his armory.”
That stops me in my tracks. I glare at him. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, many who summon can find their souls scalded if they give in to the powers that dwell in shadow. And when they have been sufficiently scalded…” He shrugs. “No telling whom they will accept as master.”
Evan rests his hands on the cover of the book. “Luc’s coming to you was not mere chance.”
“Where do you suggest I look for these parts to the relics? I haven’t the barest clue.”
“I will dig some more.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Come. Let’s join your friends to sup. And see if Niall has left us meat.”
We walk through the quiet halls, surrounded by innumerable tomes. Acolytes light torches mounted on the pillars, casting leaping orange lights. The smell of musty paper is everywhere.
Somewhere between our footfalls I think, I cannot stay here. Too much raw and burdensome memory lingers, much the same as when I fled here for refuge from the specter of Cassia’s death, and the same as when I ran from this sanctuary to escape the pressure of faith.
Where did I go when I could no longer stand the hymns? I remember white sand and blue seas. Cool shade and hot sun. Music, laughter, and friendship.
A smile curls my lips. Yes. Perhaps there I can gather my thoughts. And find a bit of work to supply coin.
Perhaps even find a buyer for this blasted Bloodheart.
THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER
~
Strathern
I love the smell of apples. Not the taste, mind. Mealy. Sweet. Disgusting.
This leaves me with mixed feelings I see not a single fruit among all the trees on this insect of an island. The corsairs were thorough. Not a body left alive on the rock. Good. I prize efficiency.
My men swarm over Applemont as maggots on a carcass, and believe you me, I’ve seen plenty of those. A few of the young soldiers bend at the knees and heave their last meals into the shrubs. I don’t harass them. Used to do the same thing myself. They’ll become accustomed to the stench of death soon enough.
“We found the chamber, sir.” My lieutenant stands there, stiff as a board. Sky’s fire, he needs a pint more than any man alive. “It is empty.”
I nod. No surprise, really. Sleet has a three day’s lead on us, and Inexorable, while well-armed, is not the fastest ship in the skies. Too many factors unknown. Wind speed, weather, and the like. By all accounts at Bristol-on-Sky Sleet is a fast ship, so I cast all thoughts of matching her speed from my mind.
“Continue your search. Bring whatever evidence you have to me.”
“Yes sire. Only…”
I hate hesitation. “On with it, man.”
“There is something you should see.”
He leads me to the center of the village. Oh, yes, the corsairs did well. Not a place left untouched by their wrath. I’ll recommend this entire place be razed and rebuilt, as a resort for His Majesty. It has quite a soothing feel. Once the rabble is swept up, that is. I kick aside a dead woman’s arm.
Something tightens its grasp on me—the soulmages’ magic. My stomach lurches. How can you not feel it? The sheer otherness. Echoes of power bombard me. Something strong dwelt here. Something good and pure.
Makes me ill.
The lieutenant gestures at the wreckage that was, I assume, a pitiful excuse for a plaza. Stones have been torn asunder. A jagged hole gapes at us like a mouth full of broken teeth. There are stairs, shattered and barely traversable, that my soldiers pick their way up. There are footprints, too.
Big ones. Craters in smashed stone as big around as a serving bowl. I kneel and stretch my palm across. Only half the width. “What happened here?”
“I don’t know, sire.” The lieutenant opens his hand. Two musket balls rattle against each other, one small enough to fit a pistol and the other large enough for a musket’s muzzle. He lets them drop into my palm with a sharp clink. “Someone had a firefight. There are a few more shots. They look the same.”
The same? I roll them in my hand. Ah. Fascinating. Both balls have a tiny flecks of stone on them. What kind of twit would waste ammunition shooting at stone? And why?
The lingering magic tugs at me. I’ve learned by now to follow its lead when it chooses to serve as a guide. It pulls me back from the center of town, down the path we walked. To a pond. I had walked right by without looking.
My reflection stares back at me from the surface. In a flash of lightning my siblings and I splash into the water, squealing at the cold that helps us escape the burn of the summer sun. Peals of laughter scatter fowl and fish from the reeds.
The memory fades. There is only my face staring back. Do I really look so bleak? So cold? No wonder the men obey my voice as if it’s a whip. Good.
The lieutenant clears his throat. “Bomb fragments, sir. One of the men found these shards by the edge of the pond.”
He adds them to the musket balls in my hand. I roll them about, metal against metal, and think.
Musket fire. A bomb. Stone.
The magic whispers—or at least, that’s how I sense it. Summoners of all stripes will assure you that magic is not alive. Soulmages will lie through their teeth and tell you it’s a gift of their Lord on High, and the variety that others—such as yours truly—use is twisted by demons.
A sneer curls my lip. Fat lot of good their holiness did them.
I look down. I’m standing astride one of the massive footprints. Whatever was in the town square also stood by the pond’s rim. Judging by the distortion of the print, the elongated shape, it ran. I nudge at it with my boot. It was right here.
Magic grips me.
The golem is still here.
I stretch my hands and mutter the incantation I will not repeat. Its misuse will kill you. Make no mistake.
The lieutenant takes a few steps back. Prudent fellow.
Water churns. It froths white like the sea in a gale. But the wind is calm, the skies clear. No earthly foul weather to blame.
The pond tears in half, as easily as shredding the shoddy work of a Ringgold weaver, forming a bowl at its center that reveals the muddy bottom. My arms quiver. Sweat dribbles down my brow. The lighting, old familiar friend, dances down my arm and leaps between my hands.
Bring them to me.
Bits of rock shoot into the air, plucked from the mud. They swirl in a cloud ten feet up, gaining in number and increasing in speed. They join into a swarm until there are no more to be found. The remnants of the magic that bound them, gave them life, now serves to reform them.
A beast coalesces in the air.
Men cry out. My men. What cowards. They brandish swords and guns. Idiots. I cannot wholly resurrect the beast. I can only give it a shadow life. Capture the echo.
A golem.
I can feel its mind calling to me. Simple. Brutish. Honest. Its purpose is clear. It protected the thing that was hidden here.
Where is the relic?
The golem moans. THEY. TOOK. MAN. FOX. ANGEL. DOG. BOY.
So. Bowen Cord and crew were here, plus the child. I scowl. He’s retrieved the Bloodheart. He and that accursed boy. But in the midst of my anger surfaces a question. How did they slay the golem? One does not simply cross blades with
a walking rock. Evidence of their muskets’ failure clinks in my hand.
Bombs?
ICE, the golem hisses.
How?
MAN. COLD. HANDS. DESTROYED!
The golem bellows. Its rage shudders through me, inducing waves of nausea. All I can do is stand firm and take it, clenching my will as one tightens a fist.
Ice. From the man. Cord? The realization is both shocking and enticing. One more for our fold, perhaps…
DESTROYED. The golem sounds mournful now. Its anger is played out. FAILED.
So close to the answers I seek. Where did they go? What did you see? What did you hear?
The golem writhes. Pain lances up my arms. I cannot hold this trance for long. Darkness creeps into the edge of my vision. Muffled sounds leak through the whirl of wind. The mass of spinning stones loses form, becoming more a cloud that solid shape.
Anger fuels determination, gives me strength. Answer me!
SHIP. FAST. GO. NORTH. SAID. BRIS. TOL. ON. SKY.
I release him. The stones blast apart and spray out into the air, over the edge. They rain down upon the sea. The golem’s screams echo in my head. All I can hear is his outrage.
Finally, I’m aware of a hand on my arm. A face. The lieutenant. Worried? How heartwarming. His mouth moves but only the golem’s cry comes out.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hard, to feel pain. Focus on pain.
Sounds leak back, as if I’m coming up for air after a dive. “... You collapsed and the men are afraid. Are you ill?”
“Let go of me!” I snap.
I’m on my knees, hands in the dirt. My fingers have dug furrows that would do a farmer proud. The black soil jammed beneath my nails are unimpeachable evidence. When did this happen? I pull myself upright, and draw my cloak closer as I stand. Don’t shake. Don’t let them see the weakness. The lieutenant’s right. The men are afraid.
Afraid of me, or the golem? I glower at them to reinforce the former.
“What happened? What did it say? We only heard it growl at you.”
“Take the good with the bad, Lieutenant: It told me that Sleet went back to Bristol-on-Sky. You see the dilemma already.”
