A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  "Yeah? He tell you where the purse is?"

  "He didn't take it!"

  "You got it on you, don't you?" Mark said. "Hey Fentil, grab his purse there."

  One of the other two men came forward and cut Angbar's belt, then yanked his pouch off. He felt his pants slowly slipping down. Oh, A'jhul, he thought.

  "Hardly anything in here," Fentil reported. "Just a few shells."

  "Yeah? Take 'em." Mark looked back to Angbar. "You spend the rest? Have yourself a nice time?" He smashed a knee into Angbar's stomach. The air fled his lungs and he doubled over, wheezing. As he coughed for breath he saw, in horror, his pants slip down to his ankles.

  Mark snickered. "Look! Look at his pants!" The others cackled. Then pain detonated in his face as Mark brought his knee up again. He collapsed in the alleyway, sucking at air.

  "Go back to Red," Mark drawled. "Sehking nog."

  Then they were gone.

  "I'm gonna kill them," Syntal said icily.

  "You . . . can't." The tortured words hitched against the shattered air of his lungs. He dragged himself up the wall and back to his feet, awkwardly hoisted up his pants. "The Tribunal―"

  "I don't care about the Tribunal."

  His nose blared with pain. He put a gentle hand to it and felt it facing the wrong way.

  Ah, sehk.

  "They can't do this! They can't just walk in here―"

  "I'm the one they hate, Syn! Me! If I can hold back, you sure as Hel can too."

  Syntal was livid, staring after the men who had disappeared. He had never seen her like this, not even during the escape from Keldale. She was so focused on his attackers she hadn't bothered helping him to his feet.

  Mark had told him to go back to Red.

  "Just forget it." His voice had a nasally whine. "I want to go home."

  iii. Lyseira

  Seth had been right: it was now a routine.

  They were still respectful enough to wait until she woke on her own. But every morning, at least three or four of them waited in the narrow alley, sometimes more. On those mornings they spilled out into the street: the sick, wounded, and hungry.

  Today Gial was among them. He waited his turn, like the others, but when it came she saw him sporting a host of cuts and an ugly gash across his outside left thigh.

  "What did you get into?" Lyseira asked as he sat down.

  Gial shrugged and avoided her eyes. "Fangs where they weren't supposed to be."

  The Fangs were one of the gangs in Red. They controlled about a quarter of it, Lyseira had gathered, though she didn't know precisely where their territory began. Apparently neither did they. Nor did the Poison, Gial's people, because they seemed to fight about it every other day.

  "We were fine, szar-kkent," said a young Bahiri from the doorway, standing behind Seth. A scar like an upside-down teardrop marked the side of his neck: a fang. "You were the ones who didn't know your place."

  Lyseira blinked. "You were fighting him?"

  Gial, still avoiding her eyes, nodded.

  "You two . . . walked over here . . . together?"

  "No!" Gial spat. "I didn't know he was coming here. Curséd sehk-stain."

  "Watch your tongue," Lyseira snapped.

  "So a minute ago you were ready to kill each other over a few cobblestones," Seth said evenly, "but now you're both here to get healing?"

  "I heard it was free," the Bahiri Fang said.

  Lyseira sighed in disgust. This wasn't what she had come here to do. "Out," she said.

  Gial looked affronted. "You're not gonna heal me?"

  "Neither of you," she said. "That wound might give you a limp, but it won't kill you as long as it doesn't catch spirits. Keep a clean bandage on it. Stay out of trouble. Come back if it starts turning green or stinking."

  "And no killing each other in the alley," Seth ordered. "This part of town isn't for that. Understood?"

  Gial glowered. "You know, I had no problem with you lot being in here as long as you stayed smart. But you start cocking this up, don't think we can't come back here―"

  Seth kicked him in his wounded leg. Gial spilled to the ground, howling, as the Fang in the doorway laughed.

  "The girl said, 'Watch your tongue,'" Seth said.

  "You think you can hold out because you're some kind of fake Preserver?" Gial demanded from the ground, wincing. "You won't even know we're here 'til we're done with you! You gotta sleep sometime!"

  "Actually I don't." Seth pulled him to his feet. "Threats are one thing. I understand you want to look tough with your mortal enemy watching. But if you attack us here, I don't care how many brothers you bring—you're the first one I kill." He locked eyes with Gial, stared into him until the other man nodded. "Now limp out of here."

  Gial headed for the door.

  "You too, nog," Seth said to the Fang. "You heard her." The man fixed him with an intense glare, then complied.

  "Don't call them that," Lyseira whispered when he'd gone.

  "What, 'nog'?" Seth shrugged. "Why?"

  "Just . . . please, don't." She gestured to the next person in line—another Bahiri, a woman of their mother's age—and gave her a smile. "Welcome. Please, sit."

  "We have no food," Seth called out just after highsun. Lyseira had just turned away the sixth hungry person in a row. "We're sorry you're hungry, but we can't help."

  We should put up a sign, Lyseira thought, but of course that would be useless—none of their visitors could read. Her original notion—that word of their lack of food would spread—had been precisely wrong. If anything, it seemed like the opposite rumor had been spreading.

  Then Seth came around the corner with another Bahiri, one with a badly broken nose. Recognition dawned.

  "Angbar?" She hurried over to him. "Are you well?"

  "He was attacked," Syntal said as she came in.

  "The gangs," Lyseira growled. "Someone needs to―"

  Angbar scoffed. With his broken nose it sounded more like a wet sigh. "It wasn't a gang."

  "Some of the other scribes thought he had stolen something from them," Syntal said. "They came after us when we left."

  Lyseira look at Angbar. "The ones you told me about? The ones that sit in front of you?" He nodded.

  She wanted to scream, to kick something. She was grateful for Akir's miracles, of course she was, but healing was always a step behind. All it did was react to the world's horrors.

  She hadn't been there when Angbar was attacked. She couldn't provide food for all the starving children she saw every day, couldn't do anything about the gangs that were responsible for half the wounds she saw. She wanted to help—she couldn't have this gift and not share it—but how? Everything she did was useless.

  "Hold still," she murmured, and called the fire. It roared through her, an invincible, blinding heat. "Better?"

  Angbar put a probing hand to the bridge of his nose. "Yeah." Were there tears in his eyes? "Thank you."

  She squeezed his hand. She should be grateful. At least she could make him whole.

  Yes, she thought, so tomorrow they can break him all over again.

  Nightmares plagued her, as they did every night—nightmares of blind hatred, of blood in the alleys and starving children. She dreamt of a storm like the one that had killed Seth and Syntal's parents, but this one never ceased. It rained, and rained, until the riverbank washed away and all of Southlight started to flood.

  She waited while the waters rose, clutching an umbrella as she drowned.

  This isn't working. She found herself staring again at that black ceiling, the unforgiving stone digging into her back. Seth is right. I should turn them away. This is pointless. She couldn't heal them all, and worse, she couldn't stop the wounds from coming. We should relocate, like he said. With Syntal's money, maybe we can even find a cheap inn somewhere. Lie quiet until the Dedication. Leave this whole miserable place behind.

  They were literally stabbing each other in the streets, expecting her to clean up after them.
>
  True, she had saved some lives. Moab and Ramoth would be homeless if their grandmother had died. Chon would've lost use of his arm, or worse.

  But many of the wounds she'd healed had not been life-threatening. Most of the sicknesses may have cleared on their own. And to what kind of life were her visitors returning? This place treated them like vermin.

  She was tired of reacting. She wanted to make an actual difference.

  Ethaniel had written, Keep an eye to the poor and hungry.

  He'd said: Akir will provide you with holy bread.

  She bolted upright.

  Manna was only used for sacred rites, on the holiest of days. It was blasphemy to call it for any other purpose, a radical abuse of Akir's gifts. Even in Ethaniel's History, he only suggested feeding it to the poor in the context of a religious celebration.

  But what did it matter? She was already a witch.

  She slipped through the door and glanced right. Seth stood watch at the mouth of the alley, where it opened into the street. She turned left, quietly, toward the courtyard.

  In the moonlight she could see the ghost of the beautiful place the courtyard had once been. She could imagine the people gathering here, sitting on the bench around the central fountain, the children splashing in the water or chasing each other in circles. Then a cloud passed over the moon, and the vision dissolved.

  "Al'Akir above," she began, "who is Father and Guardian, Savior and Punisher . . ."

  She trailed off. The formal prayers had never worked for her. Why would they start now?

  Instead she looked skyward. All the clouds were black save one, lined in moonlight.

  "They're all starving," she told it. "All of them. They are trapped here, I don't know how or why, but You brought me here. You know who I am. You know I can't—I won't—just stand by.

  "You know my idea—You can see my thoughts. And this is Your city. These are Your children, all of them, dark and pale. Even Gial. Even the sinners. So let me help them. Please."

  The echoes of her plea faded, swallowed by the darkness. She waited, her hopes slowly fading, and something hit her shoulder.

  At first she didn't recognize it. She thought it was hail, that she was getting booed off stage by the Creator of the universe. Then another piece glanced off her arm, and it was soft; when she knelt to pick it up, she found it warm and yielding. Even though it had fallen to the filthy cobblestones, no debris clung to it. She pressed it into her mouth and recalled the taste instantly: fresh, hot bread, a hint of honey.

  Feed them, He told her. Body and mind.

  A fierce joy ignited in her chest. She laughed and cried. She lifted the hem of her dress to catch as much manna as she could, but there was too much; it spilled over, dribbling into the seams between the cobblestones and surging against the walls like snowdrifts.

  Abundance. The word blossomed in her mind, a word she had heard a thousand times but had never understood until this moment. She needed a basket, or a blanket—yes, she could take that and use it to gather up the food.

  She turned toward the alley, laughing, and saw Seth: a black figure blocking her path. He watched her for a moment, his eyes unreadable in the dark.

  Then he gave a slight nod, and began to help gather bread.

  14

  i. Lyseira

  "Take as much as you need," she called. The line snaked from the courtyard entry, all the way down the alley, and out of view into the street. "But it's not free. The price is an hour of your time."

  "Take a slate," Angbar called from the courtyard entry, gently redirecting those who tried to leave immediately after getting their bread. He had returned with a stack of slates and a sack of chalk an hour ago, after taking Syntal's money (and her blessing to use it) into the city to make the purchases. He had decided not to return to Mistress Zandra's scribe house, and Lyseira didn't blame him. Besides, Syntal could easily make up his portion of the copying. "Bashada elñe," he repeated in Bahiran. "Zera-na! Zera-na!"

  In the end, there had been too much manna to gather; she and Seth had instead cleaned the corner of the courtyard furthest from the entry as best they could and piled the food there. It would be all right—even the pieces that had fallen into the vilest stagnant puddle became completely clean once fished out. The courtyard swarmed with supplicants now: the line that snaked along the wall, a small, near-frenzied crowd at the bread pile, and a milling mass in the center, getting their bearings as they realized what was expected of them.

  So many children, Lyseira thought. She had seen far too many in the past several days with wounds or sickness, but now that she offered food, they were everywhere. She saw a familiar face amid the chaos and called out. "Chon!"

  The boy looked toward her, anxiety still plain in his face. Behind him, his mother gave a shy smile and a wave.

  "Cosani!" Lyseira crossed to the woman and gave her a hug. "It's good to see you! Did you get your fill?"

  "I did." Cosani glanced down at Angna, who was stuffing her mouth with manna. The girl gave Lyseira an unabashed, bread-flecked grin. Cosani smiled and mussed her daughter's hair. Then her smile broke and she shook her head, wiping quickly at tears. "This is too good. You are too good to us."

  "Well, no, you're paying for it." Lyseira waggled a finger at the woman. "You need to stay for an hour and learn your alphabet. Angbar is handing out slates right over there." She knelt to Angna's level. "That goes for everyone who eats, missy, so you"—she poked the girl in the nose, provoking a squeal—"are included. You watch us write and just copy it down the best you can. M'sai?" Angna nodded, her eyes bright.

  "And you too, young sir," Lyseira went on, tapping Chon's chest. "Food today and healing not two weeks ago—you owe me twice." At first the boy still wouldn't meet her eyes. He stared resolutely at the ground, jaw set—but finally he looked at her and nodded.

  "Good," Lyseira said. "Good. Come on then, lesson's about to start."

  They worked as a team: Seth guiding the line and enforcing the rules, Lyseira at the front of the class scraping letters on to the wall with a broken chunk of stone, and Angbar walking the aisles, helping strugglers and translating when needed. Only Syntal, when she returned late in the afternoon, declined to help, instead retiring to their broken home to study.

  The classes' enthusiasm surprised Lyseira. Group after group erased the slates and sat on the stone to get to work. Some of them ventured timid questions of her, but many were more comfortable talking to Angbar. He worked the rows as if he had been born to it, darting from one raised hand to the next, guiding hands and cracking jokes to set minds at ease.

  They worked until late afternoon, when the line finally wound down. She let the last few stragglers take their manna and leave with an admonition that she expected to see them bright and early tomorrow, and turned the last class of the day loose. They left in a cloud of chatter, a mixture of Bahiran and High Tongue, all of it wondering and eager.

  "That was incredible," Angbar breathed as he watched them leave. "Lyseira, that . . . that was incredible."

  "Yeah," Lyseira answered. Her feet groaned after a day on the stones, her arms burning from all the writing and gesturing, but she felt invigorated in a way she never had before. "I just hope they return tomorrow. Do you think they're only coming for the bread?"

  "Maybe today they did," Angbar said, "but from here on out they know the price. They'll be coming for all of it." He grinned. "You'd better figure out where you're going with all of this! Do you think we should do simple words next? Cat and dog? Or maybe start showing them the combinations, you know—the ch sound and the sh sound?"

  "I'm thinking the simple words. Let them get to start applying it right away. That's how The Abbot taught me."

  "Yes! That's great." He took one of the slates. "Let's see, there's dog and cat for certain," he began, scratching the words onto the slate. "We can probably do food and water—or that's two syllables, do you think it's too much? Oh, sehk, food has the double-o, will that confuse them?"
>
  "Dad," Lyseira offered. "And Mom."

  "The Church will hear," Seth said as Angbar took down the notes. "It's only a matter of time. We need to be ready."

  "I know," she answered, and she did know. He was right. It was manna now, not simple healing, and with the crowds they saw today, the sheer enthusiasm . . .

  It would get out, and probably not even maliciously—people were just too excited to stay quiet. It was only a matter of time.

  But just for tonight, she didn't care.

  For tonight, she was flying.

  ii. Iggy

  Hops cocked his head and said, This is Bruno.

  Hi, the new pigeon said. He had a darker coloration than Hops—still grey, but with flecks of green on his breast. I want green balls unsquished. Grass-green, not trodden grass, but—

  Yeah, yeah, I understand, Iggy whispered. Hops had been getting pushier lately. Iggy had access to all kinds of bird food now that Syn had started sending them money, but he'd made a mistake telling Hops as much. This was the third new bird Hops had brought him in as many days. Look, I won't just feed everyone Hops knows. I help him because he helps me.

  Jobs, Bruno said, head bobbing. Wingless word. I know word. I do jobs.

  I don't have any jobs for you, Iggy tried to explain, but just as he had yesterday and the day before, Hops broke in.

  You give him green balls unsquished for my jobs. Or I stop jobs.

  Iggy glared. Enough was enough. Maybe that'd be just fine. Maybe I can find another bird who's not so damned bossy.

  Eye-green green-eyed girl won't know difference. I can still get rocks. You get green balls unsquished for Bruno, or I take rocks to different wingless. Hops fixed him with those beady eyes—for half a second, then he hopped backwards twice and forward once, breaking the effect.

  You've got to be kidding me, Iggy thought. I'm getting strong-armed by a bird? He doesn't even have arms.

  It's good? Bruno pressed. It's good? I still do job, if you have one.