"Syn―" Helix started.
"No," Syntal snapped. "If she's going, I'm going with her."
Helix's stomach churned. A memory of blaring horns echoed in his ears. "You're going to do that to me?" he demanded. "Lyseira wants to go to Tal'aden, fine, she's mad, she's always been mad, but you? Even if the Fatherlord pardons me—even if He excommunicates Marcus and Elmoor, which will never happen—you're still a witch."
"I'm not going to walk right up to Him, Helix. I'll stay away from all of them. I just don't think Lyseira should be alone."
You're going to make me go! he wanted to scream. I can't let you walk in there alone! She was his little cousin. When did she start caring more about Lyseira than him?
The door blew open on a gust of freezing wind, and the argument died.
"Help." Seth held a man in his arms, thin as a bag of sticks. "He needs help."
ii. Lyseira
She swept to the old man's side and knelt, the doubts that had been plaguing her vanishing. She had spent hours praying this winter, but Akir never answered her questions. Reaching for His flame felt simpler. Visceral. It was something they both understood; it left no room for confusion.
Fire flooded her veins. She poured its heat into this stranger that Seth had brought, exulting in the joy of it.
The man had been beaten within an inch of his life. He was broken, infested with rot and spirits. He should have been dead. The flames scorched the spirits and mended his bones. When he was restored, divinity flickered in her vision like memories of the sun.
Between the spots, though, she recognized the man. He'd come to the house when she was a child, and taken her brother.
"Master." Seth appeared next to her, proffering a handful of roots. "Eat."
Seth's master ignored him, his eyes fixed on Lyseira. With his flesh whole, he no longer looked old. Weathered, yes, and craggy. But his piercing eyes dispelled any impression of weakness. "I remember you," he said. "You're his sister by adoption."
Lyseira didn't know how to answer this. She held her tongue.
"I should've suspected you'd go to her," he continued, speaking to Seth now. "Was she able to help you?"
"There wasn't time," Seth said. "We had to run shortly after I arrived."
Seth's master gained his feet. "I am Retash," he said simply.
"Lyseira," she answered.
"It seems I owe you my life."
"Seth brought you here," Lyseira demurred. "Akir saw fit to save you when you arrived."
One brow twitched at this. "You speak for Akir? You are a priest, then?"
She looked to Seth. Suddenly, the air was fraught with risks. You brought him here, she wanted to say. You handle this.
"I would hear your story first, Master," Seth said. "Forgive me. I know it's not proper to question you, but circumstances are . . . strange."
Retash's gaze might have been made of granite. At last he said, "I lied to you. You did not have Jokan's blessing to leave the compound. I sent you away to keep you safe."
Seth's brows furrowed, just slightly. "Safe from what?"
"I cannot say. I made my choices and had resolved to accept their consequences."
"They would have killed you."
Retash dipped his chin. "I would have let them."
Seth looked away, wrestling with this.
"They would have killed you for keeping him safe?" Lyseira pressed.
"I broke the laws, and I knew the punishment for doing so. I'll speak no more of it. Tell me where I am."
The others had been quiet before, but now they were on their feet. "That's not a good idea," Iggy said. Seth raised a hand to quiet him.
"We've made our choices here, too, Master," Seth said. "I went for you because I thought you had been accused falsely, and I owe you much, but if I'd thought you were a danger to my sister . . ."
Retash sighed. Slightly but noticeably, his rigid demeanor softened. "Even if I dislike what you tell me, I have no allies to inform. Any chance I had of paying the price for my choices and passing quietly is gone, now." He looked at Seth. "I'm no danger, Seth. I swear it. Now, I would know my situation."
Seth nodded, and began to speak.
iii. Seth
"If you go to Tal'aden," Retash said an hour later, "you'll be taken before you even get near the Fatherlord." The others had left out the parts about Syntal creating the Storms, but everything else had come out. Retash now knew nearly everything. More importantly, Seth noted, he had begun to eat while they told their story.
"We can't go anywhere," Helix said. "And we can't stay here forever."
"You could go to Bahir," Retash said. "You could take a ship to Borkalis. You could―"
"Why should we have to leave the kingdom?" Lyseira said. "We haven't done anything wrong."
"You've done nearly everything wrong," Retash said levelly. "You've killed loyalmen." He nodded at Syntal. "You've practiced witchcraft." Lyseira. "You've interfered with the Tribunal's judgment."
"I am innocent!" Helix said.
"I was speaking of the warlock in Keldale, but even in your case—two sins, no virtue."
"You admit what Marcus did was wrong, then," Lyseira pressed.
Retash shrugged. "That's how you make it sound. It's not my place to judge."
"Exactly." A flush had come into Lyseira's cheeks. "The only one who can judge a bishop is the Fatherlord."
Retash considered this. "If you insist on staying in Darnoth, you could seek out the throne. Your odds of dying there may be marginally less."
"Sounds promising," Angbar said.
"You're talking about the Prince Regent," Harth said. "Isaic Gregor?"
Retash nodded. "I've heard it told he's no friend to the Church. Over the winter, the Church healed an outbreak of redwarts in Keswick—without donations—and the rumor is the regent set them to it. I've also heard that he's begun holding public audiences. Neither of these decisions have endeared him to the Church, and if he really is meeting with the public, there may be a chance he'd hear you." A pause. "The Church presence in Keswick may even be lessened right now, with the Dedication happening soon."
Seth cocked a brow at Lyseira.
"The Prince has no authority to censure a bishop," she argued.
"True. But he could pardon your friend. A royal pardon is not easily circumvented, even by the Tribunal."
Lyseira fell quiet, considering, and Syntal spoke.
"I don't think they'd respect a pardon," she said. "And even if they did, Helix's freedom is only part of it. How many other innocents have they put to death? They have to be stopped."
Strange talk, for Syntal. When had she become such an advocate for the common man? Seth peered at her, his hackles rising.
She was putting on a good show, but she was hiding something.
Again, Retash shrugged. "Then go." To Lyseira: "Your miracles saved my life, whether they were sanctioned by the Church or not. In return I've given you my advice on the matter. Do as you will."
Syntal nodded, considering the question settled, but Lyseira still looked disquieted. Seth touched her shoulder, and she looked up. "I'll go where you go," he said.
He did trust her, but that wasn't the reason for his devotion. There were simply too many perils in making his own decisions now. It was best to keep it simple.
She squeezed his hand. The gratitude in her eyes left a taste of shame in his mouth. He swallowed it and looked away.
If she could draw strength from his support, whatever its reason, so be it.
Harth shook his head. "A wise old man gives you a perfectly feasible alternative, and you insist on the hard road. This winter hasn't taught you anything." He sighed. "I can't go back to Keldale, and one end of the kingdom is as good as another. I'll go to Keswick and see about these public audiences. The Prince has no reason to listen to me, but . . ." He shrugged. "The Fatherlord has no reason to listen to you, so as far as I can tell, that makes the odds even."
Seth tensed, expecting to h
ear a chorus of voices saying they would accompany Harth to Keldale—Iggy, Angbar, and Helix at least—but only Retash spoke.
"I plan to head that way as well," he said. "If you wish it, I'll accompany you."
Harth paled.
Traveling with a Preserver was not what he had in mind. If he was a little more human, Seth might've smiled.
iv. Iggy
He had lost track of the date long ago, but he knew the month of Angeltear when he saw it: icicles dripping from the trees, the mash of spongy dirt beneath the shallow snow, each day slightly longer than the last. The Safehold rested at the bottom of a basin, where all the snowmelt had grown a huge puddle outside their door. It was pocked with broad stones that let them cross it easily enough, but every morning the rising pool encroached a little further, and navigating it without falling in became harder every day.
But the greatest signs were the ones heard, not seen. Birdsong always seemed to start too early to him, when the air was still freezing at night and snow still caked everything, and this year was no different. Sparrows and warblers, tiny and defiant, started chipping away at winter's grip before the sun rose. Shortly after dawn another song joined them: the patter of melting ice, building until it sounded like a rainstorm.
The forest was waking, stretching its limbs after its long sleep, and the sensation was glorious.
"Igg," Angbar said, balancing on the stones in the giant puddle. "Can you grab this?" He swung his travel sack a few times, threatening the momentum to toss it free.
"Hang on." Iggy secured his own pack, the one with at least two weeks of dried venison in it, on one of the statues that lined the path out of the basin. He wouldn't waste an ounce of the doe's meat. He'd already endured the complaints of the others for drying her skin indoors, because it would've frozen otherwise. But she had given her life for them, and he would make sure they made good use of it.
"Just go," Seth said from the doorway.
"The stones are wet," Angbar said. "I just want to pass this off so I can balance a little better."
"They're not that wet. Here, give it to me."
"It's fine," Iggy said. "Here." He turned back to see Seth glowering. For someone always ignoring hunger and whatever else, he sure is impatient.
"All right." Angbar swung the pack twice, experimentally, his eyes on Iggy. On the third swing, he slipped.
Iggy lunged and caught the pack before the giant puddle swallowed it. Angbar lurched into a clumsy jump, trading balance for speed to get across before he fell, but his feet slipped again on the next rock. He screamed and spilled in to the pool.
Iggy guffawed. He couldn't help himself.
"I told you it was slippery!" Angbar sputtered.
"Never jump on a wet rock." Seth stepped into the pool—the water nearly reached his shins—and offered a hand.
"Your face!" Iggy managed between gales of laughter. "Oh, sehk! It was just―" He forced himself under control, just long enough to mock Angbar's expression: eyes wide, jaw jutting. Helix and Lyseira, still in the doorway, cackled despite themselves.
"Laugh it up," Angbar said as Seth helped him to his feet. He sloshed through the pool to Iggy and growled, "I'm documenting all of this."
Iggy swallowed his mirth, though the feeble threat just made him want to laugh more. "You all right?"
"Yeah." Angbar rubbed at his thigh, looking put upon.
"Sorry. You were just―"
"Yeah, yeah." Angbar waved him off. "Careful," he called to Helix, who was preparing to cross.
"Rev'naas take that," Helix threw back. He stripped off his boots and rolled his pants to mid-calf. "Seth has it right, I think." He stepped into the pool, and mouthed a silent scream.
Angbar paused his thigh-rub, grinning. "Cold?"
Helix hopped awkwardly through the water, trying to go as fast as he could without splashing. "Blesséd sehk," he breathed when he was free. "My feet are turning blue."
Lyseira watched him, shaking her head. "I'll take the stones, thank you very much." Seth had carved her a walking stick over the winter, and she used this to keep her balance, progressing carefully from stone to stone.
"Should've shared that with Angbar," Iggy said.
"Should've shared it with everyone," Helix put in.
They all looked back. Only Syntal remained.
A sudden remorse gripped Iggy. This was it. After leaving their homes and their families, after running for their lives, they'd found sanctuary here. It had kept them safe and warm all winter—a home to them unlike any other. For a wild instant he wanted to change his mind, to convince the others to stay forever. Or, failing that, to stay behind himself.
"What's it going to be, Syn?" he said, forcing the thoughts away. The only path now was forward.
Syntal flicked her eyes over the pool. She gave him no warning.
Iggy heard the Pulse all the time now: a constant, rushing vitality that babbled like a river behind every moment. Syntal seized it, strangled it, turned it grey. His mother screamed; for an instant, the entire forest seemed to scream with her.
He stumbled, put a hand to one of the statues to keep his feet. A flood of nausea rose in his gut. Never do that again, he'd snarled at her in Keldale. Every time she did, he wanted to scream it again.
At least she was getting faster. Her chant was a random, spastic assault: unwarranted and brutal. But when it was over, the grey receded and the pain lessened. He could still feel it, but it was localized, trapped in the air around her and within her own flesh.
She now hovered a foot off the ground.
Helix gave a low whistle. "From the new book?"
She nodded, a sly smile quirking her lips. "Watch." She pushed herself off the wall, bobbing out and over the pool. Her smile died when the glide slid to a halt just short of dry ground, but Angbar pulled her in the rest of the way.
"Wow," Helix breathed.
"I can go up and down easily," she said as she let the spell go and dropped back to the ground, "but sideways is . . . kind of tricky."
Iggy felt the spell disappear like a boulder rolling off his chest. He wanted to suck at the air, to scream at her and Angbar, to force them to swear to never do that again. But if he did, he'd have to explain what he was feeling to the others. He'd have to endure questions he'd rather not answer.
And besides, things were not as simple as they had seemed in Keldale. Syntal's casual desecrations of the Pulse appalled him, but they'd also been responsible—somehow—for the second Storm. That had strengthened the Pulse more than anything she had done to harm it.
Hadn't it?
"All right." Iggy turned away and started up the path, hoping to leave the nagging questions behind him. "It's time to go."
4
i. Isaic
"Your brother is here," Harad warned just before Isaic opened the door from the bath.
And so he was: draped carelessly over the sofa, picking at his nails with a knife. "Jan," Isaic said simply. Not, What are you doing in my room? He'd learned years ago such protests were useless.
"She knows," Jan drawled, watching the blade do its work. He licked his lips, crooked a small smile, and sang: "And she's looking for yo-ou." Only then did his eyes flick up, heavy lashes batting.
Despite weeks of preparation, a sudden lump of anxiety jumped into Isaic's throat. He swallowed it and shrugged as Harad closed the door to his bedchamber behind him, taking his place near the doorframe. "She was going to find out eventually. Did you tell her?"
Jan turned back to his nails. "Why would I do that? It's been far too much fun watching you pussy-foot around."
Isaic dropped his towel and started to dress. "How did you find out?"
"Scullery girls, of course. Two in particular, after a very pleasant morning."
"What did they say?"
"You know. The usual. 'Don't stop, Jan.' 'Yes, right there.' 'Oh, you're so big, my prince.'"
Isaic sighed. "Yes, congratulations on your conquests." He didn't repeat his question.
Eventually, Jan returned a sigh of his own.
"You're a lot less fun since father left. Time was, you would've asked their names and had them up here yourself."
Isaic pulled on his pantaloons—somber maroon, nothing too flashy—and maintained a pointed silence.
"Oh, fine." Somehow, Jan managed to turn the act of sitting up straight into a flounce. "Apparently, she's furious. Feels betrayed. Which is reasonable, of course." He turned to Harad. "What do you think of all this? You've seen him hold court."
Harad, as always, shook his head and held his tongue.
Jan waved him off. "I still can't fathom what you were thinking. Father won't be happy when he returns."
"I'll deal with Father," Isaic said.
Jan scoffed. "Or Father will deal with you."
"Anything else? Anything about what she actually said? Threats, plans?"
"Not that they mentioned." Jan gave him a long look. "Are you actually worried?"
Yes, Jan. Of course I'm worried. Isaic shrugged. "No. I just like to keep on my toes."
"Perhaps you should be," Jan observed airily. "Our dear tutor may be an old nag, but she still has Shephatiah's ear."
Bishop Shephatiah, Keeper of Keswick's own Basica Majesta. A corpulent slob of a man. "I'm not so sure. I don't think they've spoken in a long time."
"A spat, you think? A quibble between clerics?" Jan shrugged. "Maybe, but you shouldn't push them. If their pride is damaged enough, they'll swallow it."
Isaic cocked a brow at this but slipped on a billowing white shirt rather than respond.
"Sehk'akir, you're as bad as your Preserver. Well." Jan gave a languid stretch that somehow ended with him slinking to his feet. "'Thank you, dear brother, this news is valuable indeed.' 'You're most welcome, dear brother. May it spare you some rude surprise.'"
"Thank you," Isaic said, and meant it. Jan sighed.
"The velvet one," he said, pointing at a different vest than the one Isaic was about to put on. "Green clashes with your pants." Then he was gone.
Isaic took his advice and put on the velvet one. He preferred to dress himself whenever possible. Servants were as bad as fawning noblemen, all begging for a scrap of his attention. He turned to the mirror, tucking and patting.
A Season of Rendings Page 5
