In a rare display of interest, Harad crossed the room to join him. He stood half a head taller than Isaic, but craned his head forward to get a good view, hands clasped behind him. "West, this time," he said. "The others have all been east."
"But each closer than the last," Isaic agreed, "until now." The first three had marched west across Darnoth as if heading straight for the royal palace: from Thakhan Dar, so distant he'd only known where it happened from the stories, to farther up the Shientel Valley and then, earlier this season, to Tal'aden.
He kept the observations to himself. Speaking during the Storm felt wrong, somehow. Irreverent. Harad was right, though: this one was different. It flickered out from the west, distant enough that it might have been above the Scar or even beyond, somewhere in the Waste.
Even as he marveled at the incredible display of color, though—like a shattered rainbow blasted across the heavens—he wondered what it meant. How can something so beautiful herald the world's end? he wondered. Will the world's final Rending be as gorgeous as this one?
A knock at the door broke his thoughts. As Harad moved to answer it, Isaic scowled. Who could possibly come knocking during something like this? He ignored the door, intent on taking in the brilliant omen unfolding in the western sky while it lasted.
"Your Highness," Harad murmured when he returned, "Keeper Shephatiah waits in your receiving room. The messenger said he bears grave news."
"Graver than a fourth Rending?" Isaic scoffed. Angelica may have ended his habit of thumbing his nose at the Church, but he had enough spine left to make an uninvited guest wait. "Send Angelica to meet him. I'll be down shortly."
Harad relayed his response to the messenger, and Isaic watched the Storm until the final flicker of lightning.
"Father Shephatiah," he said an hour later as he entered the receiving room: carved of a single piece of fine marble, graced with towering arched windows that filled the room with the morning sun. A long mahogany table formed the room's centerpiece, resplendent beneath a sea of glittering dust motes. "I trust Mother Angelica was able―" He drew up short, glancing around. "Where is Angelica?"
"I should think you know the answer to that." This from a cleric Isaic had never met before—a severe man, lean, with piercing blue eyes. Two Preservers stood behind him, and a young Justicar sprawled brazenly in a nearby chair.
Shephatiah, impossibly even larger than Isaic remembered, sat at the other end of the table, with a young initiate boy standing at one broad shoulder and a Preserver at the other. "Your Highness, allow me to introduce Bishop Marcus of the Tribunal, and the Justicar, Galen Wick. They just arrived yesterday."
"I came to work with Bishop Angelica on an internal Church matter," Marcus said, "but last night, she and several other of Akir's chosen were murdered in the crypts beneath Basica Alridaan."
Isaic's heart stopped. "Angelica is dead?"
"Burned to death," Marcus said dispassionately. "As near as we can tell, someone blocked the only two exits from the room and set it aflame. She and the rest of them died trying to escape." He cocked his head slightly. "You mean to say you know nothing about this?"
"I . . . of course not. How could I?" Angelica dead? How? He had just seen her yesterday. His mind struggled to catch up, to grapple with this new fact—but he kept his composure. Some silent alarm sounded in his head, a warning to show no weakness to this man.
"How indeed," Marcus drawled. "Your subjects are already wondering how you did it. Your rebellious nature is no secret, your hatred for the Church's authority, but this―" He narrowed his eyes. "Have you no humanity? The woman was sixty-three."
"What?" A rush of anger, of breathless outrage. "You think I did this?"
"Not personally, of course. But who else? I've seen commoners kill blind old men, but they lack the courage to do something like this on their own. To kill innocent clerics, they need something greater—coin, perhaps. Or a higher cause. The blessing of their Prince."
Isaic seethed. "That's enough. Get out."
Marcus glanced once at Harad, then back to Isaic. "I'm here on the authority of Archbishop Genneth, passed on from the Fatherlord himself. I have more right to this room than you do." He turned to the other cleric. "Shephatiah, leave us."
"Help me up, then," Shef said, beckoning to his initiate. The boy braced himself against the table, letting Shef use his shoulder to lever himself to his feet. "There's a good boy." He made a production of shuffling out. "I'll be waiting in the hall, if you need me for anything," he said to Marcus, who ignored him until he left.
Once the door closed, Marcus said, "You covered your tracks well, especially for one so young. Devious and rebellious: poor traits in one who would be King of Darnoth."
Isaic snarled. "I told you, I didn't―"
"It doesn't matter," Marcus snapped. "What matters is that they already think you did. Gossip spreads fast in a city like Keswick. If it had been Shephatiah, or even myself, that would have been one thing. That man is a slob and a pervert; everyone hates him, and I'm an outsider, the very picture of the Church flaunting its authority.
"But it wasn't us." Marcus leaned almost imperceptibly forward, a jaguar tensing in the grass. "It was an old woman, your own nanny, who raised you after your mother died."
"Don't you speak of my mother."
"It was Father Micah, a peasant favorite, notoriously lenient with his censures and filled with radical ideas the commoners loved. How could you do that? How could you be so out of touch with your own subjects—the subjects whose causes you supposedly embraced, whose presence you invited into your own palace—that you would murder the few clerics closest to them? You must be blinded by hate. Incapable of clear thought. Hardly a champion of the people."
"I never was a champion to the people," Isaic threw back. "That was never what any of this was about."
Marcus's eyes widened; for one triumphant instant, Isaic thought he had landed a hit on him. Then a sneer of disdain twisted his face. "If you truly believe that, you're even less of a threat than I thought.
"In any case, it doesn't matter now. Any advantage you had with the peasants is gone. The Convocation in Tal'aden is ended, and Keswick's body of clerics will be starting their journeys home soon. Your window is closing—if you ever even had one."
My window? What is he talking about? He wanted to think the man was out of his mind, but he suspected the truth was far worse: that Marcus was winning a game Isaic hadn't even realized they were playing.
"From here on, there will be a return to regular order. While the King is still gone and in Angelica's absence, I will be your new advisor. I will take over her position in the king's congress—your presence at those meetings will no longer be required. There will be no more appeals to the populace—no more demands on the Church's miracleworking, no more public trials or any other nonsense. You will repay every heel of the Church's expense for their miracles from last winter, with interest, and beyond that you will be quiet and still. Do you understand?"
Isaic scoffed. If this lunatic thinks that sort of cockwaving will cow me . . . "Who do you think you are?" he demanded. "You're no one. I've never even heard of you before today."
Marcus gave him a brief, bemused smile. "No, Isaic. You are no one—or can be, at my word. The firstborn is usually the heir, yes, but not always. The Fatherlord ultimately makes that decision. So it's written in Arigot, chapter two, verse three. If He feels you are unequal to—or unworthy of—the task, He will remove you. He is merely waiting on my suggestion to do so."
Isaic's burst of defiance sputtered. "You can't just walk in here and―"
"And so I haven't. Do as I say—everything I've said—and I won't. But your leash has been strung out far enough. I am calling you to heel. If you ignore me, revoking your birthright is the least of my options. I could have you detained, tormented, Cleansed . . . killed. No one would stop me. No one could."
Isaic threw a desperate glance to Harad. When the man refused to meet his eyes, Isaic fel
t the blood drain from his face.
Marcus saw. His posture relaxed into one of easy confidence. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other."
Galen Wick—silent as a Preserver throughout the exchange— picked at his teeth, bored. Marcus waved Isaic away.
"You may go."
iii. Helix
He couldn't wait to get to Keswick.
For the first time, he imagined that maybe, somehow, there was a hidden purpose behind it all—a reason his life had been turned upside down, a reason for all the terror. Usually, Lyseira was the one to spout that sort of raving nonsense. But with her realization of the Church's true nature, he actually felt as if the venerable institution had a weakness—and if it had a weakness, he damned well meant to strike it.
Truth be, this desire had been with him since the moment of his initial arrest, but he hadn't let himself dwell on it—or even think about it. It had been a fool's dream, a power fantasy. But now . . .
Now, what? Some part of him was too used to hiding, running, sleeping in the dirt. It rejected the possibility of revenge. The Prince can't do anything. The King can't even do anything.
But it was that voice's turn to get shunted to the back, to be forced to simmer quietly while events unfolded. He didn't care if the Prince could do anything. Even if it killed him, he craved the opportunity to try.
The journey to Keswick allowed plenty of time for his fervor to settle.
They took one more night of rest in the guard tower, granting recovery time to Angbar and studying time to Syntal. At dusk the next night Iggy struck out east-by-southeast, finally leading them away from the towers and straight toward the distant shadow of the Scar. "I was hoping there would be a road here," he said, "but it's gone. There should still be an old pass through those mountains, but there are no more towers this way, which means no more shelter—so we need to reach that pass as fast as possible."
But when dawn broke over the mountains, it caught them just at the edge of the foothills—which even Helix could see were far broader here than they'd been at the ridge of Ordlan Green. The mountains looked no closer than they had the night before.
They hunted beneath the blistering sun for a hollow or an overhang, and eventually got lucky with an old, broken ridge. It was no substitute for the Chi'ite towers, but it did run parallel to the sun's path, and kept them cool enough to steal a day's furtive sleep from the desert sun's clutches.
For five more days they went like this. Once they found the stone ruin of some kind of old outpost, and even though they'd only traveled partway through the night, they stopped to take advantage of its shelter. Helix suspected there had been more like it, once: probably an entire run of outbuildings and small keeps leading from Darnoth to Kesselholm. But most had long since surrendered to the Waste's relentless chokehold. Iggy had everyone take shelter in their bones when they could find them, and when they couldn't, Syntal's sorceries and Lyseira's miracles kept them alive, if miserable, until they found shelter.
Late on the sixth night, with the mountains finally drawing closer, Lyseira asked, "How much farther, Iggy?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'd hoped to find some sign by now—an old road, a riverbed, something we could follow to the pass." He peered around, eyes searching the hills. "That looks like a good place to hide for the day," he said, pointing out a short, narrow ravine. "Take Chuckler, go down there, and wait. I'll be back."
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Gonna look for help." Dawn threatened in the east, its first fingers creeping over the mountain peaks, but Helix trusted Iggy's inscrutable intuition now. It had saved their lives too many times not to.
iv. Iggy
He left the others and hiked to the top of the tallest nearby hill. The sun broke over the Scar as he climbed, baking off the night's chill with frightening speed—but the Waste's heat had never bothered him nearly as much as it had the others. If he were alone he suspected he would be fine hiking under the sun, brutal as it was.
No. What bothered him about the Waste was simpler: the Pulse was dead here.
For more than two weeks now he had endured the taste of ash and sorrow. Every morning, he had woken in a mass grave. Surrounded not just by the blasted corpses of a once-great forest, but by its dust: all that was left after the grinding hate of the millennia. The crippling pain had left him devastated and weak. Shattered inside. In comparison, his torturous awakening in Keldale last fall had been a gnat's bite.
He'd thought about trying to talk to Helix about it, had even figured out how to explain it. Imagine walking, day after day, over the ground-up bones of your loved ones. But in the end, he'd kept it to himself. He didn't want to talk about it; he wanted to mend it, to tear open the Seals until his mother's Pulse grew so strong she could return, seeping life back into the cracked earth, returning water and hope. Powerless to do that, though, he'd grown desperate to endure the place and get out.
Now, finally, he could hear the Pulse again; distant and quiet, nothing like the roar he'd heard in Ordlan Green, but its first faint whisper was like a drop of cold rain in the desert. He was close. Hel was nearly behind him.
At the hill's modest summit, he scanned the skies and valleys for grass, flying insects, scat—anything, any sign of life. But there was nothing . . . or nothing he could see with his eyes, at least.
On their last night in Ordlan Green, he had become one with the forest. He had heard every twitching heartbeat, every aching sorrow and joyous dream of the wood's inhabitants as if they were his own. The flood of life and emotion had overwhelmed him, washing away, for one short night, his own sense of self. It had been frightening and euphoric. Transformative.
There was nothing here for him to connect with like that, no web of life for him to lose himself in. Nevertheless, he extended his arms and called.
His voice rose through the wind, but instead of joining a symphony as it had that night, it ascended alone. Even the breeze was broken here, barely strong enough to carry his call, but it did what it could: winding through the blasted hills and, eastward, into the indifferent crags of the Scar. Please, he cried. Please. Anyone. Exploring through the wind this way exposed him to the land's anguish on a scale he hadn't felt before and couldn't have imagined. His flesh became the scoured rock, raw with agony; his mind, the howling emptiness of an eon of death. He wept alone in the Waste, the final embodiment of the dead forest's sorrow.
He opened his eyes and found he had sunk to his knees. Tears streaked his cheeks, soaking into his beard. Too much, he whimpered. It's too much. He turned to trudge back to the others, to swallow his pain for another excruciating day, when a blot in the sky seized his attention. His mind dared not hope, but his heart erupted with joy.
Finally, a sign of life.
The blot circled twice, then banked and descended. It came slowly into focus: female, stocky and dense, with bristling black feathers and a bare, pink head. She landed in a final flurry of wings, whispering before her feet touched: What are you doing here?
Relief crushed the breath from Iggy's lungs. You heard me. You came.
Nearly thought better of it, the buzzard grated. And may still. This place is death, too much death even for me. You must be mad to risk these hills.
I'm trying to get out. He drew a shaky breath, tried to drive the impossible weight of the Waste from his thoughts. He needed his mind back; needed control. We've nearly reached the mountains, but there's supposed to be a pass—a way through. Something tall-walkers can use.
The bird shuddered, hopping from foot to foot. Ugh, she groaned. This place. She flapped into the air, gaining a moment's blessed relief from the deathly ground before settling back. Yes. I know it. You're too far toward the Green; you must head toward the sea.
Iggy seized on this. Can you lead us there?
I have young. The breeze carried a vision of pale, blotchy eggs, perched on a cliffside. And my mate is dead. I haven't fed yet today, and they are waiting.
Please. We coul
d die out here without your help. He realized his error immediately, but it was too late.
Your pack is nearby, then? And failing? The carrion-eater looked him up and down. You look strong yet. A flicker of hunger, like a licking tongue of flame. But you are different. Your pack is weak.
They are. And if one of them falls while you lead us to the mountain pass, you can have them.
I'll just find them now, the vulture countered slyly, and wait. My young are patient.
Iggy shook his head. They're well hidden. You won't find them. And there's precious little food out this way; too much has already died.
There is more nearer the mountains, the buzzard whispered, but he knew he had convinced her. Fine. Get your pack and follow.
But any who fall are mine.
v. Helix
Iggy returned from his bizarre meditation in haste, rounding everyone up and setting them on a fevered hike despite the rising sun. No one asked questions. The heat wasn't quite as severe here, out of the Waste's deathly expanse, and the Scar blunted much of the sun's glare. Their trust was well placed. Within the hour, he led them into a thinning of the mountain range, its lowest point for miles north or south. Its provided an immediate reprieve from the heat. They slept the rest of the day, and through the night as well.
The next morning, it was finally cool enough to travel by day. By highsun, they began to see trees and other signs of life. By camp that night, the Waste's endless desolation began to feel like a bad dream.
Traversing the Scar would've been impossible without Iggy's pass. Here and there they had to scale a rock shelf or detour around a washout, which gave Helix an idea of what attempting to scale the mountain range unaided would have been like. Thankfully that wasn't necessary, and the pass held for the rest of the trip.
A Season of Rendings Page 50
