Revenant Winds (The Tainted Cabal Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  Bastian sniffed, then coughed. “It’s sunset. Don’t you have to be outside?” He raised both hands into the air, wiggling his fingers. “You know, the god’s power.”

  Bastian knew full well that it was sorcery, not the god’s power, that could be replenished during the change from night to day and day to night. He was baiting Aldric.

  “I should,” Aldric said, then shrugged. “But I have enough for now.”

  Sunset was a time of dark power—dusk-tide, as it was called—and Aldric held more than he wanted of such power.

  “Sunrise is better, isn’t it, Aldric? That’s when there’s more of the light sorcery,” Hesketh said.

  Dawn-tide, she meant. A time of clean and pure power, though still anathema to many in the Church.

  “That’s right,” he said. “The two powers are different. The dawn-tide comes with the dawn, and dusk-tide with the dusk.”

  “That’s obvious,” said Bastian.

  “Will you be staying the night?” Hope tinged Hesketh’s voice.

  Aldric reached over and squeezed her hand. It felt so thin and frail. “I’m sorry. I have to return tonight. I’m leaving on another mission.”

  Hesketh lowered her gaze and pretended to be interested in her food. “I understand.”

  “Just as well,” Bastian said. “We can’t afford to feed you. I have a hard time these days just feeding her and Kittara.” He pointed his gravy-covered spoon at Hesketh before biting off another mouthful of bread and chewing noisily.

  Under the table, Aldric slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and took out a calfskin coin purse. Moving slowly lest the coins make a noise, he slipped it into his mother’s lap. She glanced up at him and gave a quick nod and a smile.

  An hour passed, filled with strained conversation, suppressed acerbic replies, gritted teeth, and clenched fists. By then, Bastian had been drinking steadily from a jug for some time and trying, unsuccessfully, to repair a piece of leather tack. After the initial surprise of Aldric’s burgeoning abilities had worn off, Bastian had realized he’d be left to look after Hesketh and Kittara on his own and had never forgiven Aldric. He’d expected to have his son’s strong back to run the farm and do all the hard chores while he spent more time drinking with his friends and taking it easy.

  When Aldric couldn’t stand the tension any more, he made his goodbyes and spent a good deal of time trying to extricate himself from his mother’s embrace. Finally, he closed the front door behind him. Only when his parents couldn’t see him did he release some of his emotion. His face twisted as his chest tightened. Breathing became difficult.

  He staggered away from the house, his booted feet shuffling through dry leaves. In the low light, their red looked black. His hand touched a tree for support and he clutched at its bark, as if its solidity could give him strength. He leaned his back against the trunk, head bowed, and drew in a shuddering breath. For long moments, he stood there deathly still, hands bunched into fists, knuckles white. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

  “Oh, poor baby.”

  Aldric froze.

  Kittara stepped around the tree and faced him. She looked older, though it was only months since he’d seen her last. Her homespun dress was too tight, and a few too many buttons were undone at the neck, revealing skin darkened by the sun. A woven basket filled with bunches of herbs hung from one arm.

  Aldric wiped his face with his sleeve, embarrassed she’d caught him weeping. “I hoped you’d be home.”

  “Well, now you’ve seen me. Now you can go.”

  “Kittara—”

  “Don’t!” she spat. “Just don’t. You can’t imagine what it’s like.”

  Aldric stiffened. “Just as you can’t imagine what I go through.”

  “Must be hard, being a sorcerer and favored of a god. If only I knew such hardship. Instead, I have to look after our beloved father and mother.”

  She kicked some leaves wet with evening dew, and the moisture left dark spots on her boots.

  “She needs you.” It was all Aldric could think of to say.

  Kittara’s lips twisted. “They need you. I do my best. I can’t do more. But I won’t be around forever.”

  “Kittara—”

  “Enough. Just go. How long did you stay this time? An hour? Two?” She shook her head. “The prodigal son returns for an hour. How it must have pleased Mother. And Father will be in a mood for days. He drinks, you know. Far too much.” She mimed surprise, her mouth open and both hands on her cheeks. “Shocking, isn’t it? Still, Mother copes. I cope. We all cope. But not forever.”

  “Do what you must to make yourself happy. But make sure our mother is taken care of.”

  “Happy? I only want my own life. Is that too much to ask for?”

  “I can send more coin.”

  “Ah, royals. Copper, silver, and gold—the universal cure. A salve for the soul.”

  “I can’t do more at the moment,” Aldric said, all too aware he echoed Kittara’s words. “My work is important, and I’m hardly ever in Nagorn City. And now …” He touched the hem of his sleeve, rolling the fabric between his fingers. “If I could visit more often—”

  “It would be worse. You know it would.” Her shoulders slumped. “Just go, Aldric. But know I’m getting older, and one day I’ll be free of this prison. And who knows? Maybe I’ll endure a quickening and become a sorcerer like you. Then I’ll turn up on your doorstep. Wouldn’t that be a thing?” She hugged her arms across her chest, eyes unfocused, a wistful expression on her face.

  Aldric knew it wasn’t likely to happen. At sixteen, she was already too old. Only rarely did a sorcerer come into their abilities later in life, and the quickening was more treacherous then. Almost all died; and those that survived were twisted, leaning toward the dark forces that arose at sunset.

  He nodded, forcing a grin. “It would.”

  She smiled at him then, a shadow of her younger, more caring self showing through. It almost broke his heart.

  “I think I can feel the sunrise sometimes,” she said. “Like you told me you can. It makes my skin tingle.” She hesitated. “What’s it like … all that power?”

  “Frightening.” Aldric cleared his throat. “If you discover you’re a sorcerer, come find me. I’ll make sure you receive the proper training. My Covenant is expensive, but the Church will pay for it, I’m sure. But it’s … not a path I’d choose, or recommend.”

  “But you can’t choose it, can you, dear brother?”

  “No,” he agreed. “You can only submit.”

  “Submission isn’t my strong suit.”

  “It wasn’t mine either. Still isn’t.”

  Kittara snorted. “Well, I can’t stay out all night nattering. There’s work to do. Stay safe, Aldric. I need you to be around when I become a sorcerer.”

  Without another word, she turned and ran to the house. Aldric watched her until she was safely inside. She didn’t look back.

  He shouldn’t have come.

  That was what he said every time. But still, he returned; and he knew he always would.

  ~ ~ ~

  Aldric sat atop his horse a few hundred yards outside one of the many city gates that breached Nagorn City’s massive fortified walls. He’d felt drained after his visit home and had rented a room for the night in a village tavern on the way back, unable to face the long trek with only his churning thoughts for company. He’d hardly slept and had headed out well before dawn, mind and body sluggish. Now, as darkness softened to gray, he knew he’d have to quicken his pace if he wanted to avail himself of the sorcerous dawn-tide and replenish his reserves. It wasn’t just bad form to replenish a repository in the middle of a city street; it would probably lead to him being stoned or worse. And his Church wouldn’t be pleased by the resulting scandal.

  Aldric’s dusk-tide power was relatively stable, but his dawn-tide repository leaked like a rusty sieve. Every sorcerer was different, though all power drained away eventually. One way to render a sorcerer power
less was to keep them underground, away from the dawn- and dusk-tides, until their power bled from them. With dawn fast approaching, he wouldn’t make it back to his lodgings in time, but he had other options.

  Passing through the gate, he urged his mount to a trot and muttered thanks to his god that the streets were still mostly deserted. He made his way along the Ithalt Highway and barely glanced at the dark, looming stone entrance to the Bartimus Catacombs. On the edge of the street, a few old women were setting up tables to sell candles, flowers, and assorted offerings for the dead to visitors to the catacombs.

  He crossed a bridge over the fecund and oozing fester that the city’s inhabitants called the Halle River, a brown stain that wound its way down to Raven Bay, where it emptied into the Trackless Ocean. A river barge lumbered through the sludge, partially obscured by “morning mist”, which was mostly made up of smog from nearby manufactories. Aldric coughed at the river’s stench and the pollution in the air, and not for the first time since he’d returned to Nagorn City wished he was elsewhere. Touted as one of the world’s greatest cities, it reminded him of a rotting sore whenever he returned from the freshness of the wilderness.

  Aldric came to an exclusive bathhouse known to its patrons as Little Fishes. Housed in a landscaped walled garden, it was divided into male and female bathing areas, as well as a building where, for a small fee, you could receive a massage or use one of the steam rooms. But he wasn’t after a relaxing bath. On the roof of the bathhouse was a terraced garden separated into private areas. And before dawn, there was scarcely a soul around. He paid extra for a space on the edge of the building, as he’d done the other times he’d come here, and added his name to the record book.

  The woman at reception chatted to him amiably. She had skin a darker gray than his and midnight black hair brushing her shoulders. She was always on duty at this hour; Aldric had never dealt with anyone different. If she guessed he was a sorcerer—which he thought likely—she gave no sign. But that was what the patrons of Little Fishes paid for: discretion. And Aldric hardly thought he was the only sorcerer to avail himself of such an establishment when dawn broke.

  He hurried up flights of polished hardwood steps to the rooftop, where he closed and locked the door to the hallway and glanced to the east. Not long now.

  He removed his khopesh belt and propped the sheathed blade against a low chair. His shirt came next, folded neatly. Then his boots and socks. He was more comfortable barefoot for this ritual, although not all sorcerers were. Replenishing was a different experience for everyone.

  His hand strayed to where the Evokers had implanted the catalyst under his skin beside his heart. Such a valuable artifact couldn’t be kept in a locket or somewhere else on the sorcerer’s person. It had to be kept safe. Hidden. Impossible to steal, unless you knew exactly what you were looking for and the sorcerer was either unconscious or dead. And even then, their nascent wards would need to be dealt with.

  When Aldric had completed his training and found out what the Evokers were about to do to him—cut him open and embed a hated sorcerous crystal inside him—he’d resisted, to put it mildly. Eventually, they’d held him down and used a cant of submission to render him pliant. When he came to, he’d vowed to one day cut out the catalyst.

  He stood now in the center of the wooden deck, facing the soon-to-be rising sun. Manicured hedges surrounded him on three sides, shielding him from prying eyes, while the fourth side was open and looked over the city: timber and brick structures roofed with tiles or shingles, narrow cobbled streets, ground fog and dusty light.

  As the first blush of dawn stained the sky and a sliver of sun appeared over the bay, turning the water silver, Aldric closed his eyes and opened his arms. His skin began to tingle, and his hair stood on end. Goosebumps covered his entire body and he trembled, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

  The power came almost imperceptibly at first. What felt like a soft breeze caressed him, then the sensation changed. He hissed in pain as the dawn-tide glided over his skin, feeling like stinging nettles. The red sunlight bathed him, followed by an unrelated warmth that slowly gained in intensity as more of the sun appeared. He breathed deeply and opened himself to the surge of power. Light. Clean. Pure. Scalding. It flooded over him, around him, threatening to wash him away with its strength. His consciousness clung on, buffeted and battered by the sorcerous energy as if he were standing in pounding surf. Tossed this way and that, his mind struggled to retain coherency amid the turbulent flow.

  When he felt he had a semblance of stability, he opened himself to the dawn-tide. He drew in as much as he could hold—which, since his repository was small, wasn’t a great deal—and closed himself off. He knew many other sorcerers would have opened themselves for much longer to the arcane emanations. The greatest sorcerers in history had frequently required multiple dawns to replenish their power.

  He remained still, waiting for the roiling tide to diminish and eventually trickle away to nothing. Then he tested what he’d absorbed, feeling for his repositories. His mind skirted around the largest of the two, and the darkest. It was almost half full, despite Aldric not having used any of its power for months.

  Every sorcerer’s repositories leaked arcane energy and had to be topped up even if they hadn’t cast any sorceries. But for Aldric, the power he derived from the dusk-tide forces was more viscous and leaked less than the purer dawn-tide forces. Even if he didn’t consciously avail himself of the dusk-tide, his dark reserves remained high as he still absorbed some power every evening. A fraction of what he would if he’d exposed himself directly to it, but enough to offset the bleeding. His dawn-tide repository, on the other hand, had to be topped up at least every second day. He just wasn’t able to hold enough—which suited him fine. The less sorcery he used, the better.

  Guilt rose within him as he remembered the sorcerer in the ruin—helpless, about to be slaughtered by the Reaper. Aldric might have been able to save him, but his Church’s orders and the cost of fouling himself with the dark forces of the dusk-tide had prevented him doing so. What did that make him?

  He paused, staring at nothing for a few moments. Both of the powers … it was like touching two parts of eternity. One was midnight dark and dense: a mammoth weight that bore down and threatened to crush him. The other was pure, light, and tempestuous: a storm tearing at his consciousness. Both hammered upon his mind, but only one could he bring himself to use.

  Aldric shrugged and sighed.

  His power replenished, he dressed and left the bathhouse. He nodded to the woman at reception on the way out and began the long trip through dirty streets toward the Kankin District. He had a final stop to make: a visit to his sorcerous Covenant, the Evokers.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kankin District was set into an inside corner of the wall surrounding Nagorn City. It was the city’s sparsest populated district, not least because it was where the sorcerous Covenants resided. Commoners were at best wary of sorcerers and at worst violently superstitious. Some associated sorcery with demons, which led to the occasional mob turning up brandishing kitchen implements and burning torches. The Covenants let the city guard deal with anyone unruly, knowing their own retaliation would create more trouble and possibly lead to bloodshed. It was, at the best of times, an uneasy truce.

  Aldric had decided to tell the Evokers about the ruin and the Reaper. Anything arcane was of interest to the Covenant, even if it was Church business. Besides, they would know if he lied—they always did, a skill of accomplished sorcerers. Aldric had never been taught this ability, and as it involved dusk-tide sorcery, he didn’t care to learn.

  He passed the well-kept stone building with an abundance of windows that housed the Hidden Blade Covenant, then traversed a wooden bridge over a not too malodorous stream. Crossing a field of yellow grass—which could use a bit of rain, he noted—he halted in front of an unassuming red-brick structure with a roof of tiled gray.

  Aldric remembered the first time he’d set eyes on th
e black varnished door with its brass knocker shaped like a whale. The priest who’d accompanied him had wanted to be there less than Aldric did, and had thumped the knocker then almost tripped over himself in his haste to get away. It was Aldric’s first experience of the taint that would follow him in the Church for the rest of his life.

  This time, the door opened before Aldric could knock, revealing the cadaverous doorman who always seemed to be on duty. He stood a head taller than Aldric, which made his pallor and sunken face all the more striking. As usual he wore tailored black pants and a silver-buttoned coat.

  Behind the doorman, a hunched figure swept the white-tiled floor with lethargic movements. The man’s eyes were unfocused, and the veins under his skin were bulging and dark. One leg was withered, and the sole of the boot on that foot was thicker than the other. A burned-out sorcerer, someone who’d drawn too much of the dawn- or dusk-tide and let it slip from his control.

  Aldric entered, grateful for the reminder of the dangers of sorcery, though his heart went out to the poor man.

  A short while later he found himself in the presence of the Grandmaster of the Evokers, which was highly unusual. During his training, he had seen Shalmara only once, just before they sent him back to his Church. With her wrinkled skin, sharp cheekbones, and hair thinned to strands plastered to her scalp, she looked like one of the dried corpses Aldric sometimes found inside ruins—belonging to a sorcerer clever enough to pass the wards, but not clever enough to break back out. She sat on a wooden chair festooned with cushions, her waist and legs covered by a thin brown blanket, her torso swathed in a pale rose-colored silken robe, as if a tougher material would irritate her emaciated skin. Her eyes had sunk so far back in her skull they were lost in shadow. Encircling her neck was a scar, as if someone had cut her throat.

  Shalmara was old; rumor put her age at a few centuries. But all the Masters of the Evokers were ancient, and no one truly knew if they could somehow prolong their lives.