A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  He drew a long breath. This is it, she realized, and he said, "Some of us are starting to think it never will."

  A name came to her, sharp as an accusation: Matthew Rentiss. Micah had taught him in seminary, kept ties with him as he'd made his way through the ranks of the Tribunal. He'd had dangerous ideas, heretical ideas, about the role of the Church and even the authority of the Fatherlord. Mad Matthew, some called him, but Micah had always shied away from the name and refrained from gossiping about the man.

  "Your old student got to you," she said, expecting a denial.

  "Not just me."

  An admission of guilt, betraying a chasm of implications. Oh, Micah. All the strength leaked out of her. She wanted to beat him, to scream.

  He must've seen the blood drain from her face. He hurried on: "Please, Angelica, hear me out."

  No. No, not you. She'd heard the Tribunal had expanded its investigations over the winter; she knew there were heretics within the Church itself. She'd just never expected to be drinking with one.

  He took her silence as permission. "Some of us still remember what that first miracle felt like. What the calling felt like. Some of us still want a Church like that."

  "Well, you can't have it." The words were devoid of emotion: a simple statement of fact. "That's not what the Church is."

  "If that calling came from God, Angelica, as we all believe it did, maybe it's what the Church should be. If the world's not ending, it is changing. And we need to change with it."

  "Then work from inside, if you must. You're a bishop, Micah. Right now, after Shephatiah and myself, you have more power than anyone in this city. If you have a calling, follow it." And stop talking to me about it.

  "We're trying. All of us. But you know there's more to it than that. It goes deeper than any one temple. It goes to the heart of things."

  "You're talking about rebellion, Micah."

  "Maybe not. I hope not. I want―"

  "No!" Now the emotion flooded back, coloring her voice with exasperation. "There's no maybe about it! You're talking about open rebellion, possibly even a war between clerics. Between God's chosen! How can you want that?"

  "I don't want that! We won't―" He cut off, wringing his hands. "I'm sorry. They warned me not to bring this up with you, but I thought . . ." He bumped the table as he lurched to his feet, sending the wine cup into a lazy wobble. "I'm sorry. I should go."

  He crossed the little room in three quick strides, and left the door hanging open behind him.

  5

  i. Helix

  A grey morning. Cool but humid, buzzing with gnats. The road—a river of black slop— squelched beneath his feet.

  The fastest way to Tal'aden lay north, through the city of Shientel. As they'd approached it over the last ten days, the mountains of the Tears had grown steadily larger. Now they'd come close enough to see the mist tumbling from the crags, making the mountains weep.

  In the midst of this dismal view, Shientel glittered like a cache of jewels spilling out of the mountainside. When the sun peeked through the clouds, its distant glass and steel ignited, sparkling.

  The people there wanted to kill him.

  They don't know we're alive, Helix told himself for the millionth time. They have to believe we're dead. They're won't see what they're not looking for. The excuses kept his feet moving, but he couldn't bring himself to believe them. Ultimately he tried to calm himself with one final consolation: they wouldn't be in Shientel long. Just get through it, keep your head down, and make for the pass. This wouldn't be like Keldale, where they'd stayed for days trying to make a plan and ended up running afoul of the Church. It wouldn't.

  An unguarded gate marked the city entry, but the clouded mountain—the heraldry of Locklyn—loomed on the chest of every city peacekeeper. Keldale was the only other major city Helix had ever seen—and there, they'd had Harth. Here they had no guide, so they stuck to the central street as it unfolded in a slow switchback up the mountains, narrowing as it climbed. Every corner they rounded boasted a wealth of new wonders.

  "Starlight's Gift!" Angbar exclaimed, pointing at a shop decorated to look like the night sky. "We have to stop th—Oh! The Flamingo's Den! I've heard they have—Oh." He halted, his eyes fixed to a building on the next tier above them. A statue loomed above its roof: a wizened old man, holding an open book that faced the city. Its pages proclaimed:

  THE FIRST LIBRARIAN

  EVERY TALE YOU HAVE NEVER HEARD

  "Everyone," Angbar breathed. "Please. One stop."

  "Come on." Iggy took him by the arm and kept moving.

  "That's The First Librarian. I've heard they have a copy of every book ever written by man. Maybe even the books of the Chronicle," he threw out, glancing hopefully at Lyseira. "Maybe translated!" She shook her head. He turned to Syntal. "Their warehouse is hollowed into the rock. There are four levels beneath the main floor, all filled, and when they run out of space, they dig deeper to house more."

  To Helix's horror, Syntal glanced up. Her eyes held the same longing as Angbar's.

  Helix's chest tightened until he could barely breathe. He didn't have the patience for wonders. He just wanted to get through. "Syn!" he hissed.

  She snapped out of it. "Maybe another time. Come on."

  The sun had crested by the time they reached the top tier of the city, the sights growing ever more fantastic as they ascended. Soon the final wonder loomed ahead.

  A clean split in the rock of the mountains that towered hundreds of feet, the Black Pass leant the impression Akir had come to Or'agaard with a knife and sliced the stone like butter. Wide enough to accommodate traffic headed both north and south, it ran straight through the mountain range for miles to the northwest. No one knew for certain how it had formed or why it was there; its existence predated even the first books of the Chronicle.

  The top tier of Shientel was also the most brilliant, studded with palaces and golden statues. Lord Locklyn kept his home here, and Basica Shientel, the largest and most beautiful temple in the valley, blazed like a diamond from its perch. But the entrance to the Black Pass was, in its way, more striking than any of the beauty on display: a gash of darkness in the mountainside, a specter looming behind all the pretty things.

  As they drew nearer, a new worry assaulted Helix. "Excuse me," he said to a man leading a wagon down the street. "Can you tell me—are they collecting a toll to use the Black Pass?"

  The merchant shook his head. "Not from this side. Locklyn wants the riff-raff to move through fast. If there's gonna be spats, he wants them in Feldra, not in his backyard. They'll catch you for a silver shell if you're heading south, but coming from this way, you've nothing to worry about."

  Helix sighed. It was a small worry, but it was still nice to let it go. "Thanks."

  "Yeah. Although―" The man hesitated as if another thought had occurred to him, then thought better of it. He flashed a fake smile and pushed on.

  "Although . . . ?" Helix called after him, but the merchant had gone. "Well, sehk," he muttered. He glanced at his friends, but none of them had overheard his brief conversation.

  There was no toll; the man was right about that much. A pair of Locklyn loyalmen stood bored watch at the mouth of the pass, but neither of them spared anyone a second glance.

  As the group entered the passage made by the towering rock walls, the sun vanished and the air chilled. Some light still seeped in from behind them, reflected from Shientel's many treasures, but the path ahead descended as it cut through the mountain, so even that would soon be gone. Before them, the pass stretched into infinite darkness, punctuated with sparks of bobbing torchlight from the other travelers. A thin slash of open air at the top of the pass, hundreds of feet above, formed the only other light source.

  "Wow," Lyseira breathed, as Angbar said, "The Black Pass, indeed."

  Despite the pass's foreboding initial impression, Helix felt an instant of relief at being out of the city. They had gotten through without ever hearing the
shriek of a bugle—without a single person trying to kill them! It's a good start, he thought.

  Then he remembered where they were going, and his relief crumbled. He might have gotten lucky in Shientel, but that wouldn't happen in the seat of the Church's power. Tal'aden was the lion's den. Walking into its walls meant throwing himself at their mercy.

  His blood ran hot. Why does Lyseira insist on going there? What is wrong with her? Doesn't she realize—

  Except Lyseira wasn't the reason he was going. His own cousin was.

  His rage dissolved as quickly as it had come on, melting into a soup of anguished confusion. Syn . . . he thought, staring at the back of her head. Why . . . ?

  Her desire to go to Tal'aden was so incongruous for her, so inscrutable, he couldn't even summon the words to question it.

  I don't have to follow them. I could go anywhere. Maybe it's not too late to catch up with Harth and Seth's master. He imagined leaving the others—leaving his cousin—after they had thrown away their own lives to save him.

  No. His refusal left him sick and shuddering, horrified by their destination, but he couldn't leave them. Not after all they'd done.

  The security of the Safehold had been revitalizing, a blesséd respite from the nightmares that had plagued him since the night of Matthew's murder—but he'd been right to remember it was illusory.

  He trudged deeper into the Black Pass, and the darkness closed in behind him.

  ii. Iggy

  Cold, black stone, towering like dungeon walls. A tunnel that led forward and back with no other escape.

  Compared to the atrocities of Shientel, the Black Pass felt like home.

  He had braced himself as they'd approached the city, then kept his jaw clamped and his eyes locked on the road as they passed through it. He hadn't been in a city for months, but if he'd hoped that his bizarre revulsion toward the sight of cut wood had faded, that delusion was shattered now.

  No matter. They were through. The mountain air was cold, the constant darkness heavy on the mind, but it was better than the city. Almost anything was.

  The wind carried a hint of old pain here—a remnant, he suspected, of whatever had made the Black Pass. He could smell it, like a whiff of rotting corpse carried by the breeze from a neighbor's house. But if the pass was a wound, it had long since scarred over. Centuries of rainfall, that oldest and most insidious of time's agents, had carved ledges in the walls—now eagles nested there. Moss and fungus crept down the rock; here and there, an intrepid thistle had shoved its way to the open air, or even a seedling maple.

  The Tears had done their weeping, then carried on. He would do the same.

  As the last of the day's light vanished from the pass and the travelers around them started to set up camp for the night, a few enterprising traders came by offering overpriced dinners. Vultures, Iggy thought. He and his friends had a total of maybe half a dozen copper heels between them. They'd had more last fall—twenty crowns, in fact—but Marlin the Magnificent had stolen it. A fine show of gratitude for Lyseira's help saving him from a burning pyre.

  The traders must've smelled the poverty on them. Iggy watched them move past.

  He pulled the dried venison from his pack, still wrapped in saltleaf, and parceled it out for dinner. There was plenty left, and he would make sure they ate every scrap of it. As he had at every meal since he'd dropped the doe, he gave a silent whisper of thanks to the animal and her young.

  Seth insisted on staying up on watch while the others slowly drifted off. Iggy hadn't planned to join him, but his thoughts wouldn't let him sleep. This struck him as ridiculous. Helix can close his eyes, for the love of winter. His friend must be terrified to be heading toward Tal'aden. He had to be wondering if there was any wisdom in the decision.

  But a man could push away questions of safety when they were weeks from fruition. The questions Iggy wrestled with were more fundamental. Who am I? Am I mad? He rested with his back to the stone, peering into the darkness, and waited for his body to realize it needed to sleep regardless.

  That realization had nearly come when Seth said, "Igg."

  Iggy opened his eyes. His friends' gentle snores surrounded him, but he couldn't make out Seth's face; it was too dark. "Yeah."

  "Up behind us. Look."

  Lights bobbed in the darkness, maybe a hundred feet behind them. Most of the other travelers had extinguished their lanterns, but this group was still moving. "Torches?" Iggy said.

  "I think so. They've been on the move for an hour or so. Could be nothing, but . . . stay lively."

  Iggy nodded and gained his feet. In a few minutes, the torchlight drew close enough to make out a gang of young men, many on horseback, all armed. Iggy did a quick head count and tried to keep the fear from his face. Fifteen, at least. Maybe more.

  Their leader was the oldest, a leathery man with a beard like a wild bush. He had an easy swagger about him, a set to his shoulders that exuded confidence even while mounted. By contrast his animal, a gorgeous brown roan mare with a tired gait and visible rib lines, radiated weariness and hunger.

  Iggy spoke through the wind. Your rider preys on others to feed himself, but can't spare a bag of oats for you?

  The mare's head jerked up, surprised. Its liquid eyes fastened on Iggy's.

  It's all right. Unlike your rider, I won't harm you.

  "Eve, gentlemen." The man with the wild beard brought his mount to a halt. "Enjoying the pass?"

  Seth fixed the man with a glare. "Keep moving."

  "Oh, I plan to. But first, it's toll time. Two shells a head."

  "There's no toll coming from the south. Order of Lord Locklyn."

  Beard grimaced. "Well, see, that's where you're wrong." His eyes flashed over their companions, still asleep. "I count six heads, making the toll twelve shells." He nodded at the ground. "Drop it right there, my man'll pick it up, and you enjoy the rest of your night."

  Seth slowly shook his head, his eyes locked on the bandit's. "There are plenty of groups in this pass you can rob. We aren't one of them."

  The man on the next horse stiffened, his eyes suddenly widening. "Sehk," he hissed, leaning toward Beard. "That's a Preserver! We can't rob no Preserver!"

  Beard flicked a tongue across his lips. Iggy's heart pounded. Your man might attack us, he whispered to the animals. If you help us, we'll help you. Freedom, on the north side of the mountains. And all the oats I can find. He sought the gaze of each animal. That goes for all of you. I swear it.

  Beard snorted. "He ain't no Preserver, you idiot. Where's his burns?" Preservers had the God's Star branded onto their foreheads, but Seth had never passed his final trials.

  Damn, Iggy thought. So close.

  "He's faking." Beard leaned forward, scowling. "For that, we'll round it up to two crowns even for the lot of you."

  "No," Seth returned.

  "Look, we don't have it," Iggy said. "We've already been robbed once."

  "Yeah?" The bandit spat. "That's all right. We'll take it out of your girls, there." He barked a laugh and turned to his companion. "Hel, the ravenhead alone―"

  Seth leapt at him. When he landed, his spear jutted from Beard's gut like a shout of surprise.

  Now! Iggy roared, and the pass exploded with the screams of horses and men.

  Beard's mare reared back, clawing the air; he tumbled from the saddle, his ankle snapping as his right leg caught in the stirrups. The other animals followed the roan's lead, tossing their surprised riders to the rocks.

  As Lyseira and the others started awake, Iggy grabbed for his bow. It was useless—he had unstrung it for the night. Fighting panic, he lurched toward his pack for another weapon, any weapon. Half the men were sprawled on the ground or fighting with their horses, but the others were on foot. Their steel flashed in the torchlight as they shouted and charged.

  Seth, now in the thick of them, pivoted to one of the bandits on foot. A flashing knee to the groin doubled the man over; an elbow to the back of the neck sent him sprawlin
g. Seth whirled out of the attack in time to duck a swing from a second bandit. He hooked the new attacker's leg and dropped him, but as he moved to knock him out, a third man slid a dagger between Seth's ribs.

  He jerked away with the knife still buried in his side, disarming his attacker—and a fourth man came at him from behind.

  "Seth!" Lyseira screamed. "Vashan Akir! Vashan dehall san Akir!" The new attacker tripped as the Binding seized him, sending him face-first to the rocks. His sword clattered.

  Iggy could grab it. Arm himself. He started to move, and his legs froze. His thoughts exploded with the memory of being stabbed to death inside the walls at Keldale, flailing his arms against a mob of attackers just like this one, screaming his throat raw as their blades cut him apart.

  Go! he told himself. You sehking coward, GO! As Seth yanked the dagger from his own side and began laying into his attackers with it, Iggy's feet carried him back to the wall. A gibbering panic leaked from his lips.

  Then nausea seized him. The color fled from the torches' fire; the air rippled with anguish. Two of the remaining bandits stumbled, asleep before they hit the ground; an instant later, four more joined them. Angbar and Syntal had joined the fight.

  The remaining bandits cowered beneath their mounts' thrashing hooves or scrambled to retreat. Let them go, Iggy called. I know you're angry, but they're not . . .

  He fought for breath against the anvil on his chest, the memories of panic.

  They're not worth it.

  Help, the roan whispered back.

  She still had Beard's foot caught in her stirrup, the twisted wreck of his ankle making it impossible for her to get clear of him. The bandit leader's screams were the only noise left from the brief fight.

  Clarity flooded back. Iggy ran to the roan and put a hand on her neck. "Hold still," he said, reaching for the stirrup.

  "The spear!" the bandit wheezed, his beard thick with blood. "Ah, God!"

  "I wasn't talking to you," Iggy snarled. He grabbed a dagger someone had dropped in the fight, and cut the strap. The roan whickered. "All right. Careful, now." He realized he was speaking aloud, and shifted to the wind. Careful.