Except . . .
"Why am I here now?" he asked. "They had me in a dungeon, in a cell. Why bring me here?"
"You were in a cell?" Syntal paled. "The Fatherlord said . . . did they hurt you?"
"Yes, Syn. They hurt me." While you were up here studying. "Why am I here?"
"The Fatherlord gave me my books back"—God damn your curséd books, Syn, sehk on your sehking books!—"because I said I might need to study them before I give Him His first les―"
"Syn!" he snapped. "Why. Am I. Here."
"I'm getting to that! He also said He'd let you go, as—you know, as a gesture of good faith."
Every word she uttered was an insult. Good faith? He turned the words over in his mind, trying to make sense of them. Good . . . faith?
"So I'm . . . I'm free to go then."
"No. Not free-free. I think He just meant . . . free from the dungeon."
So you knew I was in the dungeon.
While you were here.
Studying.
The dream was firming up now, gelling slowly into reality just as he most wanted to wake from it. "When is He going to kill us?"
Syntal blinked. "What?"
"Kill us, Syn, when is He going to kill us?"
"He didn't say anything about―"
"He wants to learn to chant now? All of a sudden? And you're going to do it, so―"
"I have to do it!"
"—after He's learned His mantras and chanted His first spell, maybe? Maybe that'll be a good time?"
"I don't know! He hasn't killed us yet, He hasn't killed us today, so maybe we should just count our blessings while―"
"Count our blessings?" he parroted, incredulous.
"Yes! I got you up here, didn't I? A 'thank you' would be nice!"
He froze, his jaw hanging from his skull like it had been snapped by a Preserver. "A 'thank you'?" he finally repeated.
Syntal closed her mouth. Finally.
"They broke every finger I have. They broke my elbows." A note of hysteria crept into the last word, ratcheting his voice slowly toward a scream. "My knees, my ribs! I couldn't breathe!" He was sobbing again, not a man but a thing, a victim.
Another pigeon landed on the windowsill, this one speckled black and white, and cocked its head at him.
"Get out!" he shrieked, scrambling to his feet. "Get out!" The bird leapt away, diving back to the throng.
His joints still ached, groaning with intimations of Hel. He stumbled backward, sat in a finely upholstered chair. This is a trick. A taunt. He wanted me to see her, to see how richly she's living up here. She probably doesn't even want to leave. He brought me here to see it, to see her studying, and now he'll bring me back.
The thought of returning to that nightmare nearly made him scream. "We have to get out of here." The words came out like a plea.
Syntal's eyes darted to the door: Someone could be listening. Angbar lowered his voice. "You can just Hover us out. Right now. The window's wide open. Just float right down―"
"I can't!" Syntal whispered. "I have to teach Him in the morning, and if I miss it—there's this . . . miracle, this Oath, and if I miss it, if I even decide to miss it, it . . ." She ground her teeth, her eyes feverish with pleas of her own. "It feels like dying, Angbar."
Then let me go, he thought. The book is right there, let me study the spell and get out of here.
And what happens to her, when they find I'm gone? What happens to the others?
It didn't matter. He didn't care. It had been less than two days of torture, and already, he was ready to forsake them to any fate if it meant his own escape. He opened his mouth to demand it, to order her to let him study the spell—and imagined them all dying behind him, imagined living with the knowledge that he'd caused it.
"Sehk," he whimpered instead. "Sehk, sehk, sehk, oh sehking Kirith, Syn, what did we do? What did we do?"
She shook her head, mute.
"I'm not going back down there. I can't. I won't, I―" I'll kill myself. He couldn't say it. He was too much a coward even for that.
"He said you won't have to. He said you'll have a room right by mine."
"Who? The Fatherlord?"
She nodded.
His relief wracked him with guilt. So I, too, can sit up here in luxury while the others are tortured. Was that really any better than fleeing?
They fell quiet. A church bell tolled, signaling dusk; the flock of pigeons lost interest and flew away to pester someone else.
"I didn't know why He was being so generous," Syntal said at last, again using a word—generous—that made Angbar choke. "But now it makes sense. It doesn't matter that the window's open. It doesn't matter that I've got my books, or that you're free.
"We can't leave. Either of us."
They served a rich, buttery dinner, the finest meal he'd seen in a long while. He could barely touch it. They ate in silence as night fell, Angbar's stomach twisting with dread. It was nearly time for Acne or another cleric to return, tell Syntal he was being taken to his room, and return him secretly to the dungeon. He couldn't stop chewing on the problem, and had even spent an hour studying the Hover spell from the second wardbook, but he still hadn't been able to justify his own escape.
"Did you find anything?" he asked.
Syntal shook her head. She had been at the desk studying the third wardbook while he had tried to learn from the second, hoping to come across a chant that could break the Oath or help them free their friends. "It seems like it's mostly battle spells—Ves on a grander scale. Fire and lightning, that sort of thing." Despite her deliberate effort to mask it, he could still hear—and hate—the thrum of excitement in her voice. She's lying, he realized. She's already found something she doesn't want anyone else to know about.
"Just imagine," he said, "what the Fatherlord could do with that."
Syn shrugged. "He probably already could. I've heard of priests calling fire before. I just wish it helped us."
Another pigeon landed on the sill, a smaller grey one. This time, instead of shooing it away, Angbar sighed and tore off a piece of bread. "Kind of envy them," he muttered as he crossed to the window. "They can go anywhere. The open window is just―"
Wait a minute. He knew this bird.
"Syn." The pigeon hopped forward and tore into the bread, scattering a shower of crumbs across the bedsheets. It had a piece of paper tied to its left leg. "Syn!"
He picked up the animal, fighting to keep his motions steady and nonthreatening, and pulled off the message.
We're with the others. Never saw FL. Iggy says you're both in the CT. Working on a plan. – L
"They're safe," he breathed as the pigeon flapped away. "They made it back to—look." He handed Syntal the message.
She scanned it, then whispered, "This means you can go."
"We can both go," he said at once.
"Have you heard anything I've said? If I even try, I get so much pain I can't walk."
"But all you have to do is make it back to Lyseira. She has to know something, some way to help."
"No. You're not listening. This was the Fatherlord's miracle, Angbar. Akir in the flesh. The most powerful priest on Or'agaard. What can Lyseira do?"
He wrestled with this. "But I can't leave you here, Syn! He'll kill you!"
"I don't think He will. He needs me―"
"To teach Him, yes, but what happens when that's done? It won't take forever! He has your books, He can probably read them a lot better than you can—once He Ascends for the first time, He can just kill you!"
"Once He Ascends, the promise should be fulfilled." Syntal stared past Angbar, searching out the future by divining the bedroom wall. "I can leave then."
"Syn, He'll never let you! He'll know if the miracle's not working anymore, He'll throw you in the―"
She spun in her chair, closed the new wardbook, and piled it with the others. "Take these. It'll force Him to rely on me for the teaching."
That made sense, but it stunned Angbar in
to silence. She's actually willing to part with the books?
"He didn't make me swear to teach Him everything—only what I learned from the first book. And I don't actually need the book to teach Him what's in it." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "I'll have to rewrite the chants from scratch, which may require some trial and error, and I'll have to teach him the mantras from memory, but that'll only slow the process, buy me time. I'll still be keeping my promise."
She braced herself, wincing like a prisoner about to be lashed. But her logic must have obeyed the rules of whatever curse the Fatherlord had placed on her. She relaxed and released a breath. "It'll work."
I don't believe this. She's actually intent on staying. Did she really think she'd have time to chant and dive out the nearest window after the Fatherlord had what He needed from her?
Syn, you can't stay. But her expression left no room for more argument. She had decided.
"M'sai," he said, making a decision of his own. "When should I go?"
She reached for her left hand, looked at her empty finger in renewed surprise, and cursed herself. "Tonight. Does your room have a window?"
I don't know, I haven't seen it yet. That was good, but he thought of something better. "No. It doesn't. And I don't believe for certain that I'm not going back to the dungeons tonight."
She bit her lip. "You can't go now. They're right outside."
"They've left us alone this whole time. We might get another hour before they come after me. And, I'm sorry, Syn—I tried, I really did, but I just can't understand Hover. I need you to get me out." He wasn't as good a liar as Harth, but he could still do it when he had to.
A flicker of disappointment passed through her eyes before she darted to the window to gauge the distance to the ground. She shook her head. "I'd need to come with you. I can't do it from here, I'm not sure I can maintain it at that distance. I'd drop you."
"You can bring us both down, and then come back up."
"But if you can't Hover, how will you get over the city wall?"
"I'll Slumber the guards. Worked well enough at the Hall."
"It's dangerous."
This struck him as the dumbest observation he'd ever heard. "Yeah," he said.
The door opened. A woman in servant garb came in to clear their dishes. From the doorway, Acne said, "It's growing late. Time to return to your room."
Fear struck Angbar like a bolt of lightning. "What? It's barely past sundown, and we've still a lot to cover."
"Doesn't matter. Come."
"No," Syntal said. "We need more time." She gestured at the books. "Are you aware that I'm to present this information to the Fatherlord in the morning?"
Acne didn't answer.
"The thing is, I haven't thought about it in years. I'm beyond it, now. I practically have to learn it anew, and I'm not even fluent in the language. Angbar's helping me refamiliarize myself with the early chapters. Without his help, I don't know if I'll be ready for the Fatherlord in the morning. I'll have to tell Him you interrupted my preparations."
The servant finished her work and left. The young initiate stayed quiet.
Angbar shrugged and started for the door. "Fine. It's your decision. I'm just glad I don't have to explain it to Him."
Acne pursed his lips. "How much time would you need?"
"An hour?" Syntal asked Angbar, who tried to look apologetic.
"Closer to two. You're really rusty, Syn."
"Fine," the cleric said. "Two hours." Then, to Syntal: "You'll need to bathe before your meeting. Will you want it when you're done here, or in the morning?"
"When we're done here will be fine."
Acne nodded. "I'll have them draw it." He retreated and closed the door, locking it behind him.
Angbar looked at Syntal. "We're not getting a better chance." But she was already at the desk, shoving the wardbooks into her sack.
"Do you have anything else?" she asked.
He fought the urge to scoff. "No. Just me." Something occurred to him. "What about your scribing money? Can I―"
"They took it." She hauled the sack of books to the window and looked down to the square. "M'sai. It's as clear as I've seen it. I wish we could do this later. If someone sees us . . ." She shook her head and looked at him. "Ready?"
He nodded.
The chant was quick—not as fast as Ves, but no longer than Lyseira's invocations. When she finished, Angbar felt . . . lighter. "It worked."
"I know." She chanted again, this time for herself, and handed him the bag. "Go."
He climbed into the window frame, where every instinct in his head started screaming. What in Hel are you doing? The fall will kill you! A flush of vertigo rocked him.
Then he felt himself lift off of the windowsill. "Just push your way clear of the window." Syn sounded distracted, like—
Like a woman concentrating on two difficult chants at once? Every second I waste here is a second she might not be able to last. But pushing clear of the window was easier said than done when his mind kept telling him it was suicide.
An overcast sky had left the night utterly black. There wasn't even enough starlight to see the ground.
Do it. Now.
Do it, or go back to the torture chamber.
He pushed off, yelping in fear despite himself, and found himself floating in midair more than ten stories off the ground. He clutched the bag of books slung over his shoulder, trying to tell himself it was a rope.
His vertigo wasn't fooled. "Syn . . ." he whispered, but she was already climbing out behind him. Then the window began to rise, the cool air brushing his face as they sank toward the ground. Despite being slow and controlled, the descent went much faster than he'd expected.
He started cycling the mantras in his head, preparing to chant. He had to be quick. He'd only have a few seconds before she started back for the window.
She might halt her descent early, twenty feet up, and just send me the rest of the way. That would ruin his plan. He reached out and grabbed her arm, playing the panicked passenger.
Well, mostly playing.
"It's all right," she whispered. "We're almost there." The last ten feet went surprisingly fast, and then they were on the stone.
He let the mantras open his mind, unfurled his consciousness into the Pulse.
"Go quick," she said. "Don't let―" She cut off, recognition dawning in her eyes just before he put her to sleep.
He staggered as the feeling of lightness vanished, but still managed to catch her as she crumpled. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I can't let you die here." He eased her to the ground, rejoined the Pulse, and chanted Hover.
The spell lodged between his temples like a fifty-pound pack. He grunted and put a hand to the wall, struggling to maintain it.
By God, that's heavy. How in Hel did she hold two of them?
But of course, he knew the answer to that: necessity.
He looked at her limp body and willed it upward. It obeyed, her limbs hanging loose as she floated on her back.
When she wakes up, he thought, she's going to kill me.
He took her by the arm and started walking.
18
i. Iggy
"They're coming," Iggy warned. "Hops says they're lighting up the whole square."
As if to accentuate his warning, the clouds in the night sky above the city churned into a sluggish swirl. A wide shaft of moonlight broke the cloud cover and stabbed downwards, flooding over the crystal tower—which fairly ignited, spraying illumination throughout the square. Suddenly, the city center was bright as an overcast day.
Iggy had never seen such a miracle before, and by the looks on their faces, neither had Lyseira or any of the others. Was that a miracle worked by the Fatherlord? Or does the crystal tower itself have—
A second shaft of light opened elsewhere in the city, then a third. Even unamplified by the crystal tower's reflection, they must have each covered four city blocks. It would only be minutes befo
re most of Tal'aden's major intersections were lit.
See? Hopalot said. Hate when they do this. So confusing. Is it day or night? He cocked a glare at Angbar and Syntal. Are they doing this to look for them?
Angbar had staggered into camp five minutes ago, a sack over his shoulder and Syntal's limp body floating behind him like some bizarre hitched wagon. He'd been bleeding from the eyes and mouth, nearly dead on his feet—the cost of the spell he'd used to carry Syntal with him and the second one he'd used to scale the city wall. It had been obvious to Iggy they needed to run immediately—
So naturally, they had all fallen to arguing.
Seth was furious about Syntal opening a third Seal. Helix felt betrayed. Neither of them could express these feelings to the person who had caused them, so they were both venting on Angbar instead, who had collapsed against a tree.
"What curse?" Seth demanded as if Iggy hadn't said anything. "What Oath?"
"The Fatherlord made her promise to teach Him." Angbar was clutching his head, his words brittle and clipped.
"Seth, leave him be," Lyseira said. "He's obviously in pain; he can explain after he's slept."
"Teach Him what?" Seth pressed.
"Sorcery!" Angbar snapped.
"Why would He want that?"
"How should I know?"
Iggy took Seth by the shoulder. "Later. We have to go." Finally, Seth fell quiet—but even in the darkness Iggy could see the smoldering rage in his eyes.
Iggy had already loaded the new camping supplies he'd purchased onto the horses he had convinced to help them. Now they mounted up. Helix took his limp cousin while Angbar hauled himself up on Chuckler behind Iggy. The pilgrims had begun leaving that morning, leaving the road a mess of muddy tracks that would make their passage impossible to trace. Sure, he thought, except that if they come out here looking for us, they're bound to stop anyone traveling after nightfall. He glanced west toward the city, growing brighter by the moment. They're limiting the search to the city. They'll probably question the men at the gates, who haven't seen anything, and assume no one scaled the walls. Except that they already knew Angbar and Syn had escaped through a tenth-story window; they knew overcoming height-based obstacles was within their prisoners' ability. Maybe they would send search squads to the road. Either way, the more distance they gained, the better.
A Season of Rendings Page 32
