I only need one pigeon for―! He cut himself off, shaking his head. Even spending half a shell a day on pigeon food, they'd be coming out well ahead, and it was worth it to avoid the risk of entering the city. Yeah. Fine. It's good. He set out a few peas for Bruno, who gulped them down, flapped briefly off the ground, and resettled.
A brown pigeon, slightly smaller, fluttered down to join him. This is Byla, my mate.
Hi, the new pigeon said.
Iggy sighed.
iii. Lyseira
"Please sir," the puppet on Angbar's left hand begged, "can we have some food?"
"No!" His right-hand puppet spoke in a scraping falsetto.
"But sir―"
"Call me Father!"
"But you're not my father!"
"Of course I am!" Angbar cleared his throat, and Lyseira paused in the doorway. As their class sizes swelled, Angbar had volunteered to spend some time each day watching the children who were too young to learn with the others. Today she had just run in to grab an extra slate and was now on her way back to the courtyard, but the little ones always loved this part, and she couldn't stand to miss it.
"I'm the Greaaaaaaaaaat"—Angbar held the word in a grating squeak for several seconds, as some of the children squeaked along—"Fatherlord!" The kids fell to shrieks and giggles.
Sacrilege, she thought automatically. He should be teaching them more respect for the leader of the Church. But she didn't dwell on it. None of the families minded; they had a rather dim impression of the Fatherlord in the first place—and for good reason.
Besides, she had called manna every night for the last week, piling it in a filthy corner of the alleyway. If anyone was guilty of sacrilege, it was probably her.
She sighed and pushed the thought away. Her class was waiting. As she stepped into the alley, though, she nearly ran into Seth.
"I was right," he said. "Pilgrims are lining up in the square already."
"How many?"
"Maybe only a hundred still, a row or two of people all around. But there won't be any chance of seeing the Fatherlord unless we camp a space now."
Lyseira gawked. "The Dedication is still a month away!"
"I know. But there are a lot of pilgrims. They're coming up from Ornbridge, east from Twosides, even through the Black Pass from back home. And it's not just the pilgrims, it's also all the vultures trying to make money off them." The look on his face made it clear what he thought of these opportunists. "It's time to close down the charity. We need to be in the square. By next week they'll be packed in halfway down the March."
No. Forget it. She'd known this day was coming, but they'd only started classes a week ago. There was still a month to go.
Her hesitation must have been plain for Seth to read. "Lyseira . . ." he started.
"We're just getting started here. I won't lose a whole month camping out at the foot of the crystal tower just for a chance to see Him. I won't."
"Then we lose the chance, and there's no reason to stay. You risk your life every day you're here." He took her shoulder and dropped his voice. "Don't forget why you came in the first place."
"I haven't," she insisted, her mind churning. He had a point—but to close up all of this? When they were doing so much good, when they'd only just started? "Wait. Syntal said she'd share her income with us, yes? Whatever we needed?"
Seth nodded, a wary look in his eyes.
"So pay someone to hold a space for us. Lay a rug, and ask them to keep it."
A hint of disappointment flickered over Seth's face—so slight, anyone but his sister would likely have missed it. That already occurred to him, she realized. The sneaky devil! "What?" she demanded. "Out with it."
"That's . . . not uncommon. Most of the spaces already taken are held by a proxy. I asked one of them about their price, though, and it was unreasonable."
"Unreasonable?" she pressed. "Or unattainable?"
His silence was all the answer she needed.
"Get the money from Syntal. She said she'd help." She pushed past her brother and back to her class.
They held class each day, rain or shine, Dawnday or no. As word about the manna spread, the class sizes swelled. They added another session in the afternoon, and then another, until she and Angbar were teaching into the night by clericlight.
They were grueling days, spent in an unforgiving alleyway that simmered like an oven. More than once, Lyseira had to heal her own sunburn at night; even Angbar's skin darkened until his smile shone from his face like a slash of joy. But he did still smile, and so did she. Her nights of restlessness and constant questioning gave way to the headlong sleep of the exhausted and content.
The Bahiri students sometimes called her Fahnelal. Others began to call her the Grey Girl—"For your grey eyes," Cosani explained. "Very striking on a pale girl. People notice." She heard stories about their lives that appalled her and made her realize how desperate life could be living in the Fatherlord's shadow. A few even asked about her own faith, as Cosani had all those weeks ago, and she tried to answer them . . . but she feared the conversation and felt unqualified to have it, so she always tried to steer the questions back to more concrete matters: reading and arithmetic. This felt like a fundamental failing, but the questioners always followed her lead.
Those who came to her were fed. They were taught. In a few rare, precious cases, their lives began to change.
A pale little girl of just a few winters, sick and twisted with hunger when her mother first brought her, recovered and began to smile again. Several others—young and old, pale and dark—also benefitted from the food, and some of them told her that even the street violence had lessened. "Food is the first thing people steal," they told her.
Sometimes, even a month's worth of education made a striking difference. Another pale young man, whose wife had died over the winter, found work outside of Red to support his three children. A pair of Bahiri brothers—Bashiid and Falaan— started a ferrying service, running pilgrims and clerics from one end of Tal'aden to the other.
The stories were victories in a battle she hadn't even realized she'd been waging. Her ambitions began to grow. Cosani was a particularly quick learner, and given another month or two, the woman might even be able to split off and begin teaching classes of her own. There was no telling how much good they could do in Red—all of them, working together.
But they didn't have another month. As the second week of Summermorn passed, they had barely a few days.
Their eyes simmered with betrayal as she told them she'd be leaving. Some spat and walked out; others stayed, but wept when class ended.
Their reaction devastated her, but she had to go through with her plan. She had sworn to help Helix, had risked all her friends' lives on this chance to see the Fatherlord, and she had to see her promise through.
As much as she hated leaving them, she hated herself even more when she couldn't answer their questions about her faith. Her constant dance around those questions grew more erratic and frantic every time she performed it. Matthew may have been content to condemn the Church in sweeping terms, to happily balance his knowledge of Akir's compassion against the Church's apparent failings, but she simply couldn't. She had to know.
The next morning, her classes had shrunk by a third. She felt beaten and guilty. Angbar avoided her eyes, going through the motions of the classes like a dead man walking. At the end of the day, as her last class filed out, Cosani found her.
"Genhe, Cosani," Lyseira said. She dreaded seeing that betrayal echoed in the woman's eyes; wanted nothing more than to eat and sink into a night of quiet study. Cosani looked nervous, though, so Lyseira forced a smile for her. "Are you well?"
"Oh, yes. Very well. I just . . ."
Angna darted out from behind her mother's skirts. "We made you dress!"
"Angna! Shush!"
"You made me . . . what?" The girl didn't seem angry. Lyseira's manufactured smile melted into a real one. She knelt and ruffled the girl's hair.
"Dress!
" Angna beamed. "Grey dress for Grey Girl."
"Yes. It was Angna's idea," Cosani said. "A parting gift. We were going to wait, but . . ." She glanced at her daughter. "We hoped you could wear during classes, for the classes we still have. Go ahead, Angna."
Angna took the bundle from her mother's hands and held it out to Lyseira, her eyes shining. "Here! We make it for you!"
Lyseira accepted the gift and unfolded it to find a fine dress of grey cloth, supple and soft, exactly her size. The sleeves flared at the wrists, and a delicate white script flowed around the hem and neckline. "Oh," she said, her chest tightening. She fought the threatening tears, determined not to ruin this incredible gift by crying on it. "Oh, it's beautiful." She looked at Cosani. "But I can't take this. It must have cost―"
Cosani shook a finger in front of Lyseira's lips. "No cost. It was—in family? How do you say . . . 'air-loom'?"
"A family heirloom?" Lyseira shook her head. "Cosani, I can't―"
Cosani clucked. "You can, you will, you have." She pressed the dress to Lyseira's chest. "Others get so upset with you! But they forget you didn't have to come at all. You were never going to stay. I told you not to stay, but you did, and much more." Now Cosani's eyes shone with tears. She dabbed at her face, glancing away.
"We made special for you!" Angna grabbed the lacey hem, pointing at the script there.
"Pellye, pellye!" Cosani slapped her hand away and unleashed a torrent of Bahiran rebuke.
"It's all right!" Lyseira knelt again. "Here, point, don't touch. Your mom just doesn't want you getting it dirty, that's all. You can still point. What's this?" She indicated the script that had so excited the girl.
"Fahnelal. It's Bahiran," Angna said, barely fazed by her mother.
"I've heard that in class. What does it mean?"
"'Good teacher'!"
"'Blesséd teacher,'" Cosani corrected.
"'Blessdéd teacher,'" Angna said carefully. "And that one is bountif—buntenif . . ."
"'Bountiful harvester,'" Cosani said with a gentle smile, and pointed at the neckline. "This one is 'Grey Girl.' I'm sure Angbar can tell the rest."
Blesséd teacher. Bountiful harvester. Her tears overcame her refusal.
"Well," Lyseira said, swiping at her eyes, "I'm . . . I'm honored. You didn't need―"
Cosani pulled her into a hug. Kissed her cheek. "We will miss you," she whispered fiercely. "Ah, love, we will miss you so much."
15
i. Angbar
The fourteenth day of Summermorn dawned cold and furtive. After nearly two months of debate and delay, the day of the Dedication was upon them.
"I don't mind holding class," Angbar protested while Syntal was out of the room. "It'll give me something to do besides chewing my arm off with worry."
Lyseira brushed him off. "No. Not today. You can't do it alone―"
"I can enlist Syntal! She can help for one day. The scribing hall is closed anyway―"
"—and I don't want people here! We told everyone yesterday. No class today, and the manna is free. If something goes wrong, if He . . . if I end up a prisoner, and He finds out . . ."
Angbar quit arguing. It had been a last-ditch effort anyway, and even if he had convinced Lyseira to let him hold class, it wouldn't have dissuaded Syntal from her plan for the day. It would only ensure that she went through with it alone.
He had enjoyed the classes so much that he'd been able to put this day out of his mind. He'd been able to live in denial for more than a month, the approaching Dedication nothing more than the shreds of a fading nightmare. Now, though, the deceit in the pit of his stomach sizzled like bile. The urge to come clean rose up in him. Syntal's going to the Hall of the Council today. She thinks there's a wardbook there. I don’t know what to do.
The admission bristled on his tongue, ready to leap. But Lyseira's face—an impossible mix of courage and naked dread—clipped the words off. The time to confess had been earlier. Any time earlier.
Not now. Not when she was on the cusp of such a difficult choice already. "M'sai," he murmured. "No, you're right."
The girl turned back to her packing, plunging the room into a fraught silence. All of them were preparing to leave at a run, in case the worst should happen. The last note from Iggy said he had purchased some camping supplies such as blankets and tents, and even managed to "secure" two more horses. Kirith only knew what that actually meant, but Angbar was confident in Iggy's abilities. If the group had to leave suddenly, at least they'd be able to do so on horseback.
This information had prompted Seth to try convincing Angbar and Syntal to get out of the city early and wait for him and Lyseira, but of course Syntal wouldn't have it. She'd had an endless list of excuses to stay in Red while Lys and Seth went to the Dedication, none of which had touched upon the truth.
Angbar turned back to his own bags, gathering his wits in an attempt to focus. There wasn't much to pack. He and Lys had agreed to leave most of the slates, so besides his bedroll and what little he'd brought with him, there was pretty much just the finger puppets and a few other odds and ends related to the classes.
The finger puppets were felt and yarn, but they weighed a hundred pounds as he picked them up. They'd brought a lot of joy to the kids who had watched his show while their parents and older siblings had learned their letters. And, he thought with pride, they managed to sneak in a little bit of teaching of their own.
Angbar had only been in Tal'aden seven weeks. He'd spent it living in a filthy rat hole. He'd eaten the same thing nearly every day for the last month or so. And yet nothing in his life had ever left him so fulfilled.
"After this," he said to Lyseira's back, "we should write a new book. You and I. About manna and helping people who need it, and the right way to work a miracle."
Lyseira glanced over, but he could see in her eyes that he may as well have been speaking gibberish. His fumbling proposal was too far removed from this room, from the risks of this day. It was a lie because he was a lie—with every breath, every stolen moment that he kept Syntal's secret. It was a grand idea with no foundation. It meant nothing.
Lyseira gave him a distracted smile and a nod as Syntal and Seth rejoined them.
"Everything's ready." Syntal sounded mild, but she was twisting her black ring—a sure sign of her jangling nerves. "I put the sign up by the manna like you asked—if they've been paying attention, they should be able to read it."
"Thank you. I'm all packed," Lyseira said to Seth. "Book, bedroll . . ."
"Cosani's dress?" Angbar asked. Lyseira looked beautiful in it, and in the few days she'd been able to wear it while teaching, it had leant her an air of authority.
"Yes." She gave him a sad smile. "I've got the dress." She turned back to Seth. "Are you sure we shouldn't bring the packs? If things go wrong and we have to run―"
"We can't risk it," Seth answered. "If they search you for some reason and find that dress, or that book you took from the Safehold, it's over. Besides, if we have to run, it'll be easier to follow the side streets back here than to head for the main gates. The March is packed."
"Everything will be safe here," Syntal said. "Angbar and I will make sure of that."
Angbar managed a reassuring smile, a calm front that masked an ocean of lies.
"M'sai," Lyseira relented. "All right. Just stay here, and be safe. If we can't make it back for some reason, we'll head to Helix and Iggy and send word by his pigeon."
Angbar had never seen Syntal spin that ring so fast. He wondered idly if she would twist her finger off. "Understood," she said.
"It's dawn," Seth said. "Time to go."
"Be careful," Angbar said as he gave Lyseira a hug. They'd always been friends, but in the last month, working with her every day toward a greater goal, he'd gained a new appreciation for her. "Trust your gut. Be ready to run."
"You too," she said.
"We'll hold down the fort," Syntal supplied.
Then they were gone. The façade of lies cr
umbled, leaving a whistling hollow in his chest that nearly drove him to his knees.
"Did you have to do that?" he grumbled, turning away from the door.
"What?"
"'We'll hold down the fort?' I mean, I know we had to lie to them, but did you have to just . . . constantly . . ."
"I don't want them to worry," Syntal answered. "There's no need. We'll be back well before they are. We won't have nearly the crowds to deal with." She slung her own pack over her shoulders. Unlike the others, she was bringing her belongings—especially the wardbooks, she'd said, in case she needed them to break the third Seal. "Ugh. I'd forgotten how heavy these are." The two massive books in the pack made her whole frame sag. "Are you ready?"
Angbar preferred to travel light—he was leaving his own pack behind. He did what he could to camouflage Seth and Lyseira's belongings, especially Lyseira's. The girl would be devastated if she lost her things.
Then he shrugged. His mouth had gone dry. This is the last chance to put a stop to this, he thought. The last chance to speak up.
"Sure. Let's go."
Dawn had come grey and soft. The few early arrivers, reading the sign Syn had left for them and taking their fill of morning manna, moved around the courtyard like shadows in the filmy light.
"Genhe, Angbar!" Cosani called. He waved back but didn't meet her eyes, unable to muster a smile. When she fell out of sight behind him, the relief he felt shamed him.
The streets of Red Quarter looked much as they usually did, but when he and Syn reached the last of the marked buildings, the streets beyond were like something from a Night's tale. The shops and inns had all been shuttered, the streets and sidewalks empty. The thriving city he'd seen on his other trips had vanished, leaving only a ghost town.
Then he felt the gentle thrum in the stone beneath his feet, heard a distant rush like steady ocean waves. It's the crowd, he realized. The pilgrims at Sanctaria. And it wouldn't just be the pilgrims, but all the merchants and priests and peasants of Tal'aden, crowded in for a chance to hear the Fatherlord's rare twice-in-a-lifetime sermon. Or to take advantage of those who were.
A Season of Rendings Page 25
