A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  "What of the Mal'shedaal?" Lisal demanded. "They won't be so easily killed."

  "Of course they will," Lar'atul said. "The Seal will end them, at which point we destroy their foci and ensure their permanent deaths. Their bond is tied to their foci. Without them, they cease to exist."

  "You're sure this can be done?" Baltazar pressed. "A revocation of the Seal?"

  "I'm certain," Lars said. "I've been working on the theory since Alía first mentioned it."

  He fell quiet to let them assess his arguments, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his thigh.

  "It's too great a risk," Ethaniel finally said. "If She learned of it, She could prepare somehow. Brace Herself."

  "She'd only need to survive the initial Seal," Korr-shiis agreed. "One mistake, and we're back where we started—or worse."

  Lar'atul gaped, blinking. "But . . . what if you're wrong? What if the Seal is worse than Alía plans? If it ends you, the Naratles—humanity? To go ahead with no recourse is―"

  "Any recourse is just an escape mechanism for Her," Alec said. "I would reverse your question: what if we do this and kill so many, only to reverse it and find that we failed? The element of surprise would be lost. She would never permit a second attempt." He shook his head. "No. It's the Seal that ends Her. It can't be temporary. It can't be reversible."

  Lars shook his head, his face blank with shock.

  "I have to agree," Alía said. "But you spoke well. Sha'anthelas would be pleased with her representation."

  Ethaniel sighed. "You've been given your time, Lars. I call the question."

  "Are you that cowed?" Lar'atul exploded. "Has she broken you so completely that you've lost the capacity to protect yourselves?"

  "Enough!" Ethaniel snapped. "You were given your chance―"

  "No!" Lars roared back. "You were given yours! She was right about you—all of you! You are cowards! You're letting Her dictate the terms of this, all of it, right to the end! You would destroy creation before you would face your own cowardice? Akir weeps!"

  Ethaniel opened his mouth to respond, but Lars had already turned away. He stalked out of the room, his night-blue cloak flowing behind him. With a brief nod of apology to Ethaniel, Jenseer followed him out.

  "He's going to do it anyway," Seth breathed as Lars swept past. "Without their help."

  Syntal, nearest the aisle, darted after him as he left the chamber. Lyseira and the others followed, catching Lar'atul and Jenseer in the marble antechamber.

  "Idiots!" Lars seethed. "Idiots and cowards! How―?" He caught a glimpse of his shades and whirled on them, tearing his sword loose. "You are done!" he shouted. "Why don't you understand this? Return!"

  "Lars," Jenseer said gently. "Your weapon."

  Lar'atul glanced at his sword. It was humming again, azure light tumbling from it like rolling mist.

  "I think it brought us here," Helix said. "I can't remember―"

  "Of course it brought you here," Lar'atul snapped. "I am tei'shaar."

  Helix shook his head, uncomprehending.

  "Perhaps it holds them here," Jenseer said.

  Lars fumed. "Why would it do that? It gains me nothing."

  "No. But perhaps it gains something for them."

  The tei'shaar's anger faded to a simmer. He looked at the weapon again, this time with deeper regard. "Come here," he said to Helix, who immediately obeyed. Then, to the sword: "Enough now." He touched the blade to Helix's shoulder, and endless blue swept over them once more.

  25

  i. Angelica

  It was almost time.

  She'd found Micah last week and asked if it was too late to join him and the others he'd gathered. A lesser man might have questioned her, even accused her—but Micah had accepted her offer with a grateful embrace. Now, only an hour remained before their first meeting as a group, in Basica Alridaan, where Micah was Keeper.

  Her heart had taken up permanent residence in her throat since their conversation. Her years of practice hiding her revulsion and self-hate were her ally now. They allowed her to smile and laugh, to move through her days as though she weren't a traitor to every cause she'd ever championed.

  An hour. A mere hour.

  She wanted to leave now and arrive early, but she knew it was impossible. Every attendee had their own schedule and excuse for attendance. Some had arrived hours ago; some were staying on after the evening's worship; others, like her, were supposed to arrive only as worship ended. At the meeting's end they'd all leave under a similar schedule, carefully designed to attract the least speculation.

  Still, she would rather roam the streets than stay in the palace. Her decision had left her with more than just jangling nerves. She felt invigorated. Young again. She wanted to move, even if just to wander aimlessly; this place was suffocating her.

  Scorch it. She set aside the report she was writing and threw open her door to find Takra in the hall.

  "Mother Angel," the girl said. Angelica normally despised that nickname. She let no one else use it, but somehow, hearing it from Takra always warmed her heart. She only hoped she'd be able to live up to it.

  "Takra! What a pleasure to see you!" Takra nodded. Her demeanor had turned quiet since Angelica's promise—a promise Angelica hoped to discuss with Micah and the others tonight. "What brings you to the palace?"

  "Father Shephatiah sent me. He needs you at Majesta."

  Suddenly, the hour which had felt interminable a minute ago became agonizingly short. Her smile tried to falter; Angelica didn't let it. "Well, that's perfect. I was just leaving. I'll take a wagon. Do you want a ride back?"

  "No, thank you," the girl said, her manners impeccable. "I have other errands to run for the Father while I'm here."

  "M'sai." Angelica wanted to say more, but it would be too dangerous. As a reaffirmation of her promise, she made do with a squeeze of the girl's shoulder. Then she locked her door behind her and hurried to the carriage house.

  The fifteen-minute ride to Majesta beat her fears, but still ran longer than she'd hoped. I'll never make it to Alridaan in time, she fumed as she made her way up the stairs, but she had to put such thoughts behind her—it would be better to miss the meeting entirely than to inadvertently warn Shephatiah of its existence.

  His door stood open today. She rapped at the door frame twice as she stepped around the corner. Then she stopped, once again keeping the surprise off her face through sheer force of will.

  A lean cleric with a severe widow's peak and the gaze of a hawk stood near Shephatiah's desk. He had two Preservers—one at the door and the other at his side—and his pet Justicar, Galen Wick, lounged in the corner of the room. She knew him only by reputation, but she knew him at once.

  "Ah, Takra found you," Shef said from behind the desk. "Good. Bishop Marcus, this is Sister Angelica, former nanny to the Gregor princes."

  "So it is." Marcus's gaze drilled right through her, as if it could pick apart her secrets and extract them through her eyes.

  She circled her heart and bowed her head, as much to avoid that horrible gaze as to observe the formalities. "Bishop Angelica," she said, "if it please you."

  "Yes. So he already said."

  Shef graced her with one of his hideous, gaping smiles. "Come in, come in! Have a seat."

  "I . . . must admit I'm surprised to see you," Angelica ventured to Marcus as she took a chair. Then, to Shef, "I thought you said―"

  "You thought he would retract his request because you had matters under control," Marcus stated. "He tried. But my plans had already been laid, and I didn't trust your assessment of this situation, particularly in light of new facts.

  "The King is dead."

  She parsed the words, certain she must have misheard somehow. The King . . . ? How . . . ?

  "His ship went down in a storm off the coast of Borkalis eight weeks ago. Both his Preservers and all his holy advisors, including Bishop Nathan Caleb, drowned with him. The sole surviving sister ship returned with the news. Without a
cleric to hasten the message, we only just learned of it."

  She felt her knees give out. If she'd been standing, they would have spilled her to the floor. My God. Nathan Caleb had been the true power behind the royal throne, the man who held the King on a puppet string. With both he and the King gone . . .

  Oh, Isaic. Suddenly the weeks-long campaign to get the unruly prince under control may have become the only thing keeping him alive. You stupid boy. Why did you have to do this all now, why couldn't you have waited?

  "As you can well imagine," Marcus continued, "your recent assurance that the Prince Regent has realized the error of his ways must be verified. Even if his behavior has changed, it was still erratic as recently as two months ago. With a second Rending last winter and a third just a few weeks ago, the Fatherlord expects a rash of new witchcraft reports. He has said the coming Stormsign will be like nothing we've seen. Earthquakes. Hurricanes. A collapse of the natural order. It will be a season of tribulation, and He requires absolute control of the throne. There is no room for deviance."

  "Let me talk to Isaic. He may―"

  "No. It will be my decision, entrusted by the Fatherlord himself through Archbishop Genneth. You are to keep your tongue. Isaic will not be told of his father's death until I deem it is time, as it may be necessary to coronate his brother. Do you understand?"

  "I . . ." Coronate Jan? "Yes, of course."

  "You've been told solely so that you would already be aware in the event the information somehow reaches him. In that event, you will calm him and direct him to speak with me. That is all."

  "All right. What do you need from me?"

  "Brother Shephatiah tells me you manage the king's congress in Caleb's absence?"

  "I . . . have been, yes."

  "For now, continue. Once the situation with Isaic has been resolved I will make a final determination as to the new King's advisor."

  And it won't be you, Angelica. She didn't miss his unspoken assertion. "Forgive me if I'm overstepping my authority, Father, but if you decide Jan should be coronated, what will happen to Isaic?"

  "That will be my decision. If I need a recommendation I'll ask for one. All options are possible."

  All options. Dear God. She had to warn him, but anything he did to protect himself would expose her. She wanted to scream, to vomit.

  Her face remained placid. "Understood, Father."

  "That means simply waiving his divine claim is a possibility, as are Cleansing and even elimination."

  Her eyes betrayed her, flicking away from that awful stare. "Yes, Father."

  "You raised the boy, didn't you? Doesn't the prospect of his death hurt you?"

  She forced her eyes back to him, but again, they quailed and retreated to the wall. "Even if it does, I'll do my duty."

  Her heart thudding in her chest. Shephatiah's noisy breaths. Galen Wick's smug half-smile.

  Marcus finally went on. "I'm glad to hear that, Mother, because the Fatherlord needs loyal believers. He has fewer than we thought."

  He knows about Micah and the others. Her blood ran cold. And he suspects me.

  She had only an instant to respond.

  I can't face him. I can't.

  He's watching my response. I have to.

  She drove her eyes to his, forced her best approximation of dismay. "What? What do you mean?"

  "Have you heard of the Grey Girl in Tal'aden?"

  "Yes, I . . . I think so." She was stammering, her defenses slowly caving under that brutal stare. She had to stop it. "A witch, wasn't she? In Red Quarter?"

  "Not just any witch. A witch in the mold of Mad Matthew, one who healed without the Church's blessing and even summoned the holy bread, piling it in the back of some filthy alley as if it were rat droppings.

  "The boors in the Quarter loved it, of course. They called her a hero. But the worst part was that certain voices within the Church supported this blasphemy. Matthew's madness, it seems, has spread even further than we'd feared."

  Ah, God.

  "The Fatherlord predicted it all, of course. He scoured Red Quarter clean on the day of the Dedication, while the city's attention was elsewhere. The Grey Girl was a weed, eliminated by her roots. Her followers and anyone who defended them are dead. In His wisdom, though, the Fatherlord realized that a similar weeding had to happen in His own temple, so He usurped the Convocation. The clerics who had visited for the Dedication are required to stay. Thirty days to identify the apostates, and three to destroy them.

  "The Church's great Cleansing began this morning. It will be far stronger for it, in the end."

  How many? she wondered. How many dead that had been friends or peers, how many that had taken a pilgrimage to their deaths?

  "While Keswick may ultimately be less important than Tal'aden, it is still critical that our presence here be pure. Many of your clerics here made the pilgrimage to Tal'aden, and have now been judged by the Fatherlord, one way or another. Not all could go, of course, but of those who stayed here, I need to know their reasons. Hopefully most will be pure. I suspect some will not be.

  "I'm telling you this because I've already scrutinized you in detail, Mother, and I believe you to be one of the pure ones. As the head bishop at the royal palace and chief advisor to the current ruler, you have extensive reach. I'll need your cooperation to complete my investigation."

  She refused her relief, shoving it down deep where it couldn't betray her. There may be time. She could warn Micah and they could leave tonight; flee for Bahir or even Borkalis. There were places for heretics to hide, if they could only reach them.

  "I would be honored, Father. This is great work you're doing. Thank Akir"—she circled her heart—"the Fatherlord saw this threat coming."

  "I've already asked for a full accounting of every Keswick cleric's identity, position, and location from Bishop Shephatiah. I will need the same from you by tomorrow morning. We will cover the redundant list one by one to identify the greatest risks, and proceed from there. Be here an hour before sunrise."

  "Yes, Father."

  "Do you understand everything I've told you?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Good. Then go."

  He turned to Shephatiah, to resume some conversation they'd begun before she arrived, but she could still feel his Preservers' eyes on her back as she left.

  Simon could have destroyed me just now, she thought. He knows everything. She stole a glance at her Preserver as they hurried back to her wagon, but the man didn't return her look.

  Preservers swore an oath of secrecy about everything they heard, and their oaths of protection were to their individual charges. In theory, they had no particular loyalty to the Church, and their appointments were made for life. It was nearly unheard of for a Preserver to betray his oath—in fact, the Chronicle documented such an event only once, and it outlawed the use of the traitorous Preserver's name, Jenseer, in the same passage.

  All the same, she had never tested that oath to this extent before. Mad Matthew's Preserver had been stripped from him when he left the Church; outside of that example she knew of no other case where a Preserver had learned of his charge's heresy.

  When they reached her wagon, she ordered the driver to Basica Alridaan, Micah's temple. He had given her strict instructions to skip the meeting rather than arrive late—one of the precautions designed to protect its secrecy. But things had changed. She had to warn him. As the vehicle rattled toward its destination, she shut the driver's window and turned to Simon.

  He had been her Preserver for twenty years. They'd appointed him when she became a Bishop, just before she took on her teaching responsibilities for the princes. Some clerics developed close relationships with their Preservers; a few considered them confidants or, in exceedingly rare cases, even lovers—though this was against Canon and such affairs had to be kept secret. By the time Simon had come to her, though, she'd grown far too accustomed to her secret pain to share it. She had treated him with respect, unlike some others who regarded t
heir Preservers as servants or even slaves. But she had never opened up to him; never confided; never even inquired as to who he was or what kind of life he'd led. They had both simply been people assigned to a job, and that was how she had always looked at him.

  Suddenly she regretted the years of silence. She had never yearned to know a person like she did at that moment. "Simon." She touched his shoulder, he looked at her, and she froze.

  Who are you? That was what she really wanted to know. What do you believe? But she couldn't ask those questions, and there wasn't time to answer them anyway. She chose another tack. Instead of prying into him, she laid herself bare.

  "You know who I am. You know everything about me. You could have . . ." She lowered her voice, just in case the driver had overly attentive ears. "You could have ruined me in that room, but you didn't. I know I was at your mercy. I just need . . ." To know I can trust you. Again, that urge to dig. Why? Of course she could trust him; his silence had already saved her life once. "I just need to thank you for keeping your oath. I don't know your beliefs or how you feel about my choices, but I know you're keeping your oath to me, and . . . I needed to thank you for that."

  The wagon clattered through the street. The murmur of an evening crowd crept in through the windows. Finally, Simon gave a deep incline of his head. "Always," he said.

  She squeezed his shoulder and released a long, trembling breath of relief.

  Darkness choked the streets by the time they arrived at Alridaan. She had missed her appointed time by nearly half an hour. She scrambled out of the wagon before it fully halted.

  Basica Majesta may have been huge and glorious, but it couldn't accommodate a population of Keswick's size alone. In comparison, Micah's Alridaan was a peasant's hovel: no vaulted vestibules or soaring angelic sculptures graced its entryway. A single young initiate had just finished cleaning the pews after the evening's sermon, and looked at her now with suspicion.

  "Service is ended, Mother," he said. "We're closing the doors soon."