A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  Lyseira shook her head, teeth gritted. "I said you didn't need to come."

  "You said you came here to plead for Helix," Seth said, "not to get executed for witchcraft."

  "That was always a risk!"

  "Yes. A risk. That you're quickly turning into a guarantee."

  Finally, Lyseira faced her brother. "What would you have me do, Seth? I've prayed my whole life for this blessing, the power to work miracles, and when Akir grants it and sends me people in need, I'm supposed to turn my back?"

  "They're not your problem," he insisted. "You can't heal everyone."

  Her eyes flashed. "Well I can damn well heal the little boy bleeding to death outside my door." She turned to her pack and pulled out a book―the same one she'd been translating since the Safehold. "You want to go, then go. I'm staying." She crossed to the corner, took a seat on a rotting barrel, and buried herself in her work.

  Seth shrugged and spoke to her back. "I'm not going anywhere. If you're staying, you're going to need me."

  Angbar shared a sidelong glance with Syntal.

  "So . . ." he began.

  "I was thinking," Syntal said. "The Dedication is almost two months away yet. I saw a sign last night advertising for scribes. They're paying two shells a day for copy work."

  "What if they recognize you?" Seth asked.

  Syntal sighed and started gathering her things. "We can't just sit in this room for seven weeks, Seth. We'll starve to death." She slipped on her sandals. Angbar followed suit, sparing a grimace of apology for Seth.

  "We'll be back in a few hours," he said, and the two of them slipped out.

  9

  i. Angbar

  "Well," he said as they put the hovel behind them, "it's good to be out of that."

  Syntal nodded. "He has a point, though. I wish she'd listen to him. A little discretion would go a long way."

  Angbar shrugged. "I don't know. She was the one who wanted to come alone, remember? The rest of us are just . . . along."

  They reached the main street and angled southeast, the direction they'd come from the night before. Syntal lowered her voice.

  "So she should just get to do whatever she wants? Whatever's important to her, no matter the danger to the rest of us?"

  "Well, I don't . . ." The argument trailed off under a sudden insight. 'No matter the danger,' Syn? You sure you're not talking about yourself? He waited, certain her casual hypocrisy would dawn on her at any second, but her face remained untroubled.

  Worse, she had taken his fumbling protest for surrender.

  "I really did see a sign," she said, moving on from the subject. "And I would like to do some work for them if they'll have me. Two shells a day for five weeks . . . almost six and a half crowns." She frowned. "M'sai, it does seem like it should be more. But still, it can't hurt, and it will give me a good reason to get on to the streets every day."

  Sure. She'd need a reason to leave and keep an eye on the Hall, to watch for her chance. A believable lie.

  "So it wasn't a lie." She sounded assured, not defensive. "We'll look in on the scribing work. We'll just check on the Hall first." She glanced at him to gauge his reaction, and his heart skipped.

  A'jhul, he thought, even when she hasn't been chanting, her eyes are stunning. "I . . . Yep. Right behind you."

  She gave him a grateful smile before turning to lead the way, and he shook his head. A line from his story penned itself in his head.

  The young man has his reservations, of course. What reasonable person wouldn't? But faced with those eyes of hers, his doubts vanish. He'd follow them into whatever scheme she pleased.

  Unlike Keldale, which had a number of wide streets to accommodate visitors seeking access to the port, Tal'aden had a single central boulevard, called the March, which stretched from Basica Sanctaria at the city center all the way to the eastern gate. The rest of the city seemed to be all curling avenues and side streets, haphazardly slapped together over the centuries.

  More than that, Tal'aden was the among the oldest cities in Darnoth―older than the line of Gregor kings that ruled in Keswick, and, some said, older even than Keswick itself. Every shop and family apartment scrabbled out an existence in a repurposed stone edifice or converted ruin. New construction was rare, since making space for anything new always meant tearing down something else that might be thousands of years old, and was usually reserved for (what else, in Tal'aden?) temple buildings.

  So the process was that of constantly turning corners and bumping into ancient wonders, everything a bizarre juxtaposition of historical artifacts and irreverent modernity. They stopped in at a small bazaar, covered with a patchwork sheet for shade, to ask for directions; when they left, Angbar saw the entire market was nestled in the crook of a giant, fallen statue's arm. It must have been forty feet tall when it had stood, but now its broken chin and arm stump served as anchors for the market's awning.

  They tried to follow the directions they'd received, but the man who'd given them had not exactly been helpful once he realized they weren't buying anything, and what he had told them seemed to bear no resemblance to reality. He'd said to turn left at Corinth, but Corinth only ran right, and they never even found Alabaster, which he'd described as a "straight shot" to the Hall. Or maybe they had found Alabaster and just had no idea they'd done so, because half the streets had no signs or were surely too narrow to qualify as "streets."

  One time they found a gap between buildings so narrow he could hold his arms out and touch both sides, but it had a fine tin plate bolted to its entrance describing itself as Allhost Avenue. Another time they stumbled across a boulevard wide enough that Angbar briefly wondered if they'd gotten turned around and ended up back on the March, but it had no markings of any kind. Or it did, but there were just so many people crammed into the street that they couldn't see it.

  The sun climbed, pouring heat into the stones. He was thirsty and tired and hungry, and the jostling crowd wasn't helping.

  "This is ridiculous." He had to lean into Syntal's ear to make sure she heard him over the deafening crowd. "I think we've gone too far." Or not far enough, he thought, or the wrong way entirely. I want to go home.

  Syntal answered, but the throng swallowed the words. He shook his head and leaned in. "What? You have to speak louder."

  Syntal nodded. "Right." He didn't hear the word so much as read it on her lips. But . . . "right" what? He was right that they'd gone too far? Or he was right that it was too loud? Or they should turn right . . . ?

  Oh, rev'naas take this. What in Hel are we doing?

  "It's highsun, for the love of winter! Syn!" She started to push through the crowd, forging onwards, and he snagged her arm. "We've been gone too long! We need to get back!"

  She jerked her arm away, scowling, and pointed. He followed her finger and saw the street sloped gently downward, leading to another ruin at the bottom. Yes, m'sai, he thought. Another tower.

  But a ten-foot stone wall stood at the base of this tower, forming a triangular enclosure. It's got a triangle wall, the man at the bazaar had said. You can't miss it.

  "That's it?" Angbar shouted. "That's the Hall?" It wasn't much to look at, compared to some of the other wonders they'd already seen today. Truth be, he wasn't even excited to find it. He'd been hoping, he suddenly realized, that they'd never find it at all.

  Syntal nodded again, finally breaking into a smile.

  But if that's the Hall, then this atrocious crowd must be—

  Ah, A'jhul.

  He followed the current of people with his eyes. He'd assumed they were milling aimlessly or halted in the middle of the street for the sole purpose of getting in his way. Now he saw the truth.

  "Syn, this is the line! These people are all here to see the Hall!"

  She peered at him, cocked her head. Her lips said, What?

  "This is the line!" he bellowed. "These people are all here―!" His dry throat gave out in a coughing fit.

  She'd gotten the message, though. She
pushed up on her tiptoes, fighting for a better view, and her excitement curdled.

  Well sehk, she muttered soundlessly.

  "It's not gonna happen today," Angbar said. "Too many people. Maybe tomorrow.

  "Come on."

  ii. Iggy

  Iggy had noticed several campfires over the night, and assumed at the time they were just other travelers, too poor for a room at an inn in the city. But as morning turned to afternoon, the pockets of other visitors remained, trading, chatting, or hunting. It seemed he and Helix weren't the only ones camping outside the Tal'aden walls.

  He left Helix at their camp and approached one of the other groups―a family from Rushtar'r, just a few miles east. They were pilgrims, come for the Dedication, who wanted to arrive early enough to ensure a place close to the Fatherlord when the ceremony happened. Their daughter had fallen off their barn roof last summer and taken a blow to the head which had left her mute and simple. They couldn't afford healing, but they hoped if they could get close enough, the Fatherlord would choose them for a free miracle.

  I wonder if Lyseira could heal her, Iggy thought as they talked. Hel, I wonder if I could.

  They were friendly folks, and happy enough to trade some of their bread for a few sticks of Iggy's dwindling supply of venison jerky. This was a lucky thing, because when he got back to camp, a familiar pigeon had taken up residence on his bedroll.

  "I think your friend's back," Helix said, nodding at the bird. "I tried to get the note, but he won't let me near him."

  It was fun to watch him try, Chuckler put in. Quite the show. Sorry you missed it.

  Iggy nodded at Helix and whispered, Hello.

  Found flock, the pigeon whispered back. Two women, two men. One darker-skinned, one bald no marks. One eye-green eyes and onyx hair―not black, you said black, the hair was onyx. And one with longer hair. It cocked its head at him. Bread?

  Iggy reached for the bird's leg and it hopped backwards, eyes accusing. You said deliver message for bread. It's done. Hard work for a piece of bread, when there's so much just laying around in the hard places. You have any idea how much bread I could have if I just stay in hard places? Get bread all the time. But you ask, it's nice, so I help—but I do all this work for your bread, I better get bread now.

  Chuckler whickered and stamped. Ha! He told you.

  All right, all right. Iggy couldn't begrudge the creature his reward; a little part of him even admired its temerity. He tore off a chunk bigger than the bird's head and held it out.

  The pigeon darted forward, eyes flicking, then danced back.

  It's a'fin, Iggy promised. Why would I hurt you now? Come on.

  The bird again hopped forward and retreated. You're still very large. Could hurt on accident. Step on me. Catch me because you can't help yourself. Wingless doing that all the time. It glanced left, right, upward. Drop it.

  "Fine." Iggy tossed the bread and the pigeon swooped, whipping the food left and right as it tore in.

  "Still doesn't trust you, huh?" Helix wore a bemused smile. "After all that?"

  "He's learned caution. Can't hardly blame him." Can I get that message now?

  What message? Already delivered, I told you.

  Yes, but it's still on your leg.

  You want message back? Fine, don't want it on my leg anyway.

  Iggy scanned the short note. "They're all right. Found a place to stay, in case it rains again." Can you check in with me again? Every morning?

  "That's good," Helix said. "How are they paying for it?"

  Every morning? The bird was incredulous. You give bread every time?

  "I'll have to find some more."

  Helix peered at him. "What?"

  Iggy held up a hand. "Sorry." Too many people talking at once, he thought. "Hang on." I'll have to find some more.

  The pigeon puffed out its chest. Well, lot of work to come out here. I told you. Not coming out for nothing.

  I understand. I'll make it worth your while.

  The bird harrumphed and flew away.

  Chuckler watched it go. You sure you don't just want me to run a message in now and then? he drawled. Might be easier.

  Iggy shushed the horse with a wave, and Helix did a double-take. "The horse is talking, too?"

  "Just . . ." God above, conversations were becoming complicated. His mind fished around, trying to remember Helix's earlier question. "They're not paying. Syn said wherever they're staying, it's free."

  "A free place? Where is it?"

  "I don't know! It wasn't that long a message. Here, you want to see it?"

  Helix scanned the paper and sighed. "Sorry. I'm . . . nervous, for them. This whole thing, it just―" He shook his head. "Thanks for doing this much." He handed the scrap of paper back.

  "Yeah." Iggy softened his tone. "I know. I can check in with them every few days, maybe." As long as we keep finding more bread. "But really, we're just waiting now. They're in there, we're out here. We need to look out for ourselves."

  iii. Lyseira

  The three orders of Kesprey were established early in the Church's history, shortly after its arrival on Darnothian shores from the east. Specific details of the time prior to said arrival are vanishingly rare, due, it is believed, to a kind of persecution or genocide of the earliest Kesprey, but history has been fairly well documented in the ages since. While the specific origins of the three orders are likewise murky, their purpose has always been clear. The orders are marked by their colors: Grey, White, and Blue. Each corresponds to a primary ideal, respectively: Justice, Compassion, and Knowledge.

  Lyseira yawned, an act that started simply but became a body-wracking endeavor which nearly toppled her from her chair. For all the time she had spent obsessing over his throwaway observations about the ethics of miracleworking, Ethaniel Isaihne had ultimately written a dry research piece, not a treatise on morality. She had a strong thirst for answers, but at the moment, it was losing out to sheer boredom.

  Last night's rain had evaporated, leaving the street muggy and hot and turning their little room into a sauna. She fanned herself and glanced at her brother, who had taken a break from balance and stretching exercises to prop a molding wooden board against the open entrance. He had barely cracked a sweat.

  Seven weeks until the Dedication. Nearly fifty days of this, which should be plenty of time to finish the translation, provided she managed to stay awake for it.

  She slapped herself lightly on the cheek and got back to work. It took her two hours to finish the page.

  Aptitude for a given order is typically demonstrated early in life, often before the age of six, though Akir may reserve His blessing for a person of any age. Grey Kesprey miracles are often marked with fire, a sign of the faithful's wrath, while the healing miracles of a White Kesprey tend to be more potent and their stamina for withstanding Akir's light far greater. To whatever extent a miracle can be considered mundane, a Blue Kesprey's will meet the definition, though their lack of specialty does encourage them to excel in their studies.

  Beginning with the Blue, the following pages will lay out in detail the names and histories of several of the most prominent Kesprey of each order, dating back to the earliest records.

  Nope. She closed the book and leaned back, trying to relax the growing knot in her neck. When she shut her eyes, lines of meaningless text striped the inside of her eyelids.

  The information about the three orders actually interested her despite its dull presentation. What did it mean that Grey Kesprey miracles were "marked with fire"? Like the Church of Akir she'd grown up with, it sounded as though the Kespran Church had had its own institutions, but instead of dividing them by jurisdiction, they were divided by . . . what had he said? "Ideal"? There was something noble about that, something pure, but something inefficient, too. Who collects the tithes? she wondered. Is that a matter of justice or knowledge? And who spreads the word of the Kesprey? The Abbot had been from the Order of Apostles, which served that function in the Church. As
a child, she had aspired to join it as well. But in the Kespran Church, would that responsibility have fallen to the Whites, because it concerned compassion, or the Blues, because it concerned knowledge?

  A timid knock came at what passed for their front door. Seth rose smoothly to his feet and gestured for her to keep quiet.

  They waited. The gentle, distant din of the city crowded into the tense silence.

  The knock came again. "Please," a woman's voice said. She had a heavy Bahiran accent: short vowels and clipped sibilants. "I know you are there."

  Seth shot Lyseira a quick glare: I told you so. "Leave us," he called through the leaning board. "I'm only saying it once."

  "Please," she said again. "I have—I am sister of Chon. I have payment for your service."

  Lyseira exchanged looks with her brother. For once, he seemed at a loss.

  Well. If he wasn't stopping her, she would put an end to this foolishness. Lyseira pursed her lips and moved the board aside.

  The young woman in the alley was only a few years older than Lyseira herself, and as dark as Angbar. A toddler girl rested on her hip.

  "Nine shells," she said, holding out a jumble of copper and silver coins with her free hand. "Nearly a full crown. I know it is not all, but it is how much I have. Please."

  No. The word was on Lyseira's lips, but something made her hesitate. Nine shells could be two weeks' meals, maybe even a couple nights off the streets, if they could ever find a cheap inn. They were going to be here for months. They needed whatever they could get. Maybe this is how Akir provides, a little voice whispered. She hadn't demanded payment for Chon's healing. His sister offered it freely.

  Except the fear in the woman's eyes belied that idea. She wasn't here to show gratitude. She was terrified.

  Lyseira took the woman's hand and closed her thin fingers over the money. "No," she said. "The miracle was a gift." She gave her an encouraging smile, trying to drive the point home. "It was free."