He imagined being someone important, a master chanter, his life in the streets behind him forever. They were ridiculous indulgences, but as he slid down the wall to give his groaning legs a rest, his mind splashed in a river full of them.
"Now that's dedication."
A booted foot shoved him awake. Harth started and looked around, taking in the weak light of dawn and a silhouette towering above him: Kai, holding out a hand.
A round of complaints flooded his mind—You left me waiting here all night?—but he shoved them aside. As Kai pulled him to his feet, Harth only cared about one thing: "What did he say?"
The older man crooked a small smile. "He'll meet you this afternoon. Be at the north palace gates—the servants' entrance—an hour before sundown. Cort'll meet you and bring you in."
A thrill ran through him, burning away the cobwebs of sleep. No. This can't be possible. Disbelief wracked him even as an elated grin stole across his face. "Really?"
"Really." Kai dropped his voice. "Three, like we said. You, Syntal, one other—and the girl's the only witch."
Harth's mind raced. "Of course, yes."
"Don't be late, don't be early. I don't want to see you before then. And not a word of this, to anyone." The smile vanished. "If this gets out, I'll know it was you—and if this is a trick, I'll kill you."
The threat sobered him, but he nodded. "I'd deserve it," he said.
Kai grunted and left. Harth turned back for the Temple district, head spinning.
It's really happening. We're actually going to meet him. He wanted to shout or run or cheer; his heart pounded so fast he thought he might vomit. On a lark, he waved down a passing wagon and paid the driver three shells to bring him back to the Damsel's Rest. The ride still took forever, the streets unwinding themselves with all the haste of the eternal stars.
Finally, the wagon pulled up to the inn. He tipped the driver and hurried inside, where the proprietor, a ruddy man with a scarred face whose name Harth couldn't remember, waved him down.
"Ah, Master Matthews," the innkeeper said. "Excuse me! I have a parcel for you. Master Matthews!"
Jacob Matthews. My alias. Harth stopped with his foot on the first stair, and turned back. "A parcel?"
"Yes." The man gave him a nervous smile. "Cecil, go fetch the man's parcel. It's in the back; you remember." A young man of an age with Helix nodded and vanished through a door behind the counter. "Please, have a seat while you wait." The innkeeper gestured at a chair.
"I'm . . . in a bit of a hurry," Harth said. The man looked nervous, his smile forced. "Can I come back for it in a few―"
Two men in winged helmets burst through the inn's front door, casting about. One of them saw him and pointed. Harth took an apprehensive step upward—just as a third Justicar emerged around the corner at the top of the stairs, blocking his way.
"Harth Silwain," he said. "You are―"
Harth Ascended.
The room crackled into perfect brilliance, an infinite array of tantalizing truths—but he ignored them, snatched what he needed, and slammed back to earth. The chant was out of his lips before the Justicar finished his sentence. The man tumbled forward, sliding down the stairs like a ragdoll.
Harth jumped his body and raced upstairs.
"Goreth!" one of the men in the doorway shouted as he ripped his sword loose. "He's coming upstairs!"
Harth darted around the corner, thinking to jump out the window at the end of the hall. But yet another Justicar guarded it. He dropped into an easy fighting stance, his sword at the ready.
The soldiers in the common room had already reached the staircase, their boots thundering upward. He didn't want to get caught between them and Goreth, so Harth made for his room instead, leaving all three of them behind as he burst through the door.
It was empty, the beds and pillows shredded, streaks of blood marring the floor. They got them. The thought sizzled through him as he tore through the room for the window. Sehk, they already got them, I'm too late.
"Stop!" Goreth reached the doorway and hurled a dagger. Harth didn't see it in time to dodge, but it missed, shattering the window. As the Justicar charged him he Ascended again: truth and beauty and passion. The two from downstairs careened into view as Goreth raised his weapon, snarling.
Harth rewrote all three of them. They crashed to the ground, snoring before they hit the floor, and he dove out the window to run for his life.
ii. Angbar
He woke to the cold bite of steel at his wrists and ankles, hanging with his back to a clammy brick wall. He was naked, exposed like a slab of meat. The black tang of a filthy rag filled his mouth; the taste made his gorge rise, and he fought it with all his strength, because he didn't want to drown in his own vomit. He tried to lift himself to his feet and felt a double scream of agony from his broken knees. He cried out, his muscles seizing reflexively—and felt another shriek of pain from every finger, each meticulously broken.
Stop moving, he whimpered. Stop moving, stop moving, ah God, please, ah . . .
He pinched his eyes shut, breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he forced his muscles still.
It was the nightmare again. The one he'd had nearly every night since that horrible day in the Tal'aden dungeons. Except this time, it was real once more.
They got us. How did they get us? He remembered going to sleep on the floor of Harth's room, envying Lyseira her spot on the bed; remembered a vague nightmare, of shadows darting in silent moonlight. It was real. Somehow, they took us all in the night.
All of us. This time, there was no doubt. A pathetic mewl escaped his throat. Terror seized him, thrashed him in its jaws; he could only whimper and sob and beg. No. Not again, oh A'jhul, please, not again, please, ah God!
He clenched his eyes closed, willing the cell to vanish. Ascension, he thought. I can't chant without my fingers, but I can Ascend. I can end myself that way. It was a measure of power he hadn't had last time; he hadn't realized how deadly mere Ascension could be until he'd abused it in the fight at Kesselholm.
He glommed on to this thin thread of hope, this one card he could always play, and dragged his eyes open.
Frail light flickered in through a small, barred window set into the heavy door. When his eyes grew accustomed to it he made out a woman hanging limp from her manacles on the opposite wall, naked and brittle. Syn. He couldn't see her face in the darkness, but he recognized her hair, the shape of her jaw. He tried to mumble her name through his gag.
Her eyes fluttered open. Then she tried to scream, and the gag beat the sound into a mangled wail.
He pissed himself. It dribbled down his thigh, splashed to the cold stone. Later the sehk came, slapping to the floor with a wet plop, filling the room with his stink.
In time the door opened, flooding the cell with a shriek of clericlight. "It reeks in here," a man's voice said. "Clean it up." A pair of Preservers came in, efficiently cleaning up the mess. A Justicar stepped in behind them, his eyes darting, and took his place beside the door. When the Preservers finished, a cleric wearing a stained, dingy robe entered and hung a shining amulet on a wall hook.
He watched them, eyes flitting from one to the other as they waited. Every instant Angbar spent under the weight of those eyes, the dread in his heart yawned wider.
Finally, the cleric said, "Let us first dispense with any confusion. Since the first Rending, I've hunted dozens of witches. I've fought them, I've captured them, I've questioned them, and I've killed them. I am very good at what I do."
That voice. Angbar had only heard it once, briefly, while huddled behind a bush and listening through a window. But he would never forget it. Bishop Marcus.
"Often my quarry has stumbled into their abilities; I often understand them better than they do. I doubt that's the case here"—he gave Syntal a considering nod—"but just in case, let me be clear: you can't chant without the use of your hands. I understand that when you work sorcery, the chant takes over. You're not always aware of everything y
ou're doing, so let me fill in the missing details: you speak, and you use your hands. If you're unable to do either of those things, you can't chant. Please nod if you understand me."
Angbar nodded. On the opposite wall, Syntal did the same.
"Any attempt on your part to chant, to escape, or do anything besides answer the questions I put to you will result in severe retaliation. Your fingers are currently broken, but if you refuse to heed this warning we will cut off your hands. Broken fingers can be mended. Missing hands cannot. Understood?"
Again, they nodded.
"If that doesn't stifle your defiance, your tongue will be cut out next. At that point, you will be unable to answer my questions. You will be turned over to my acolytes, who will use your body to perfect their technique for the next several years. Understood?" When they had nodded again, he moved to Angbar. "I understand you have some familiarity with this process, so you may recognize my first question." He pulled out Angbar's gag. "What is your name?"
Beh'lal. The answer he'd given in Tal'aden's dungeon. He wanted to give it again, to be the kind of hero he'd always read about, to lend some small mote of hope to Syntal before her turn came.
But courage had left him. It was a companion whose name he'd forgotten.
"Angbar Shed'dei."
"And are you a witch, Angbar Shed'dei?"
His lip trembled. Tears leaked down his cheeks. "I am," he said, voice cracking.
"And your companion there." Marcus pointed. "What is her name?"
Angbar hesitated. It doesn't matter. He already knows. You're not betraying her, you're just making it easier for both of you. Marcus arched a single, impatient brow.
"Syntal Smith."
Marcus nodded. "And is she a witch?"
Angbar quailed, looked away from his friend so he wouldn't have to watch the terror bloom in her eyes. "Yes."
"Good. Now, you spent some time in a dungeon in Tal'aden, did you not?"
Angbar nodded.
"I'd like you to tell your friend Syntal, in detail, what happened to you there."
Ah, God! A gasping sob wracked him. His tears melted Syntal into a blur of mottled flesh. "Syn," he managed, "I'm sorry."
"Tell her."
"They—they―" He fought for breath, his heart shaking the bars of his ribcage as if it could claw its way loose. "They . . . broke . . . everything."
"In detail, please."
"My . . . my . . . my elbows. My . . . fingers. My knees. My ribs."
"And then?"
"And then they . . . they left me . . . on the floor."
"Good. You're doing well."
"I could . . ." Sobbing. Wailing. The confession Lyseira had always told him he had to make when they were children, finally dragged out of him at the hands of a sadist. "I could barely . . . breathe."
"And when they returned?"
"Healed me. They healed me. And did it all—did it all again."
Syn was crying now too, tears streaking the grime on her cheeks.
"Thank you." Marcus turned to Syntal. "In Tal'aden, you were able to save him, because the Fatherlord wanted your help. You had a bargaining chip to play. You have no such chip now, and the Fatherlord is deeply angry with you. I suggest you do exactly as I say, and answer my questions as explicitly as possible. Do you understand?"
Syntal's eyes flashed to Angbar. She nodded.
"Good." Marcus pulled out her gag. "Now. What is your name?"
"Vetch," Syntal said, and vanished.
Her manacles collapsed through the empty air, clinking weakly against the wall. Marcus put his hand to the brick, searching, and found nothing. His Preservers glanced at each other, a rare break in protocol; even the Justicar looked alarmed.
"Where is she?" Marcus whirled on Angbar, seething.
"I . . . I don't . . ." The manacles spun lazily about their chains, bobbing like spent pendulums.
Marcus kicked him in his shattered knee, triggering a detonation of blinding pain.
"Where? Tell me now or so help me God, I will ruin you!"
"I don't know!" Angbar gasped. "I don't know, I've never seen―"
Marcus snapped his fingers. One of the Preservers pressed his forearm to Angbar's left elbow, securing it to the wall.
"No! Please! I don't know, I swear, I―"
The Preserver punched Angbar's forearm, shattering the bone and mashing the flesh to a pulp. As Angbar screamed and begged, the Preserver moved to his other side.
"The fourth book!" he shrieked. "No, no, the fourth book, it had to be a new chant! I've never seen it! Ah, God, please, I've never seen it!"
"Where is she?" Marcus roared again.
"I don't know, I sw―"
The Preserver destroyed his right arm. The world turned to anguish and screaming, a red haze streaked with black. Marcus shouted another question, one he couldn't even hear, let alone comprehend.
Then they hit him again.
iii. Iggy
The cell was dismal and small, with a short, grey cot at one end and a bucket for his waste on the other. One wall was hard stone; the other three were floor-to-ceiling bars. He had barely enough room to pace, but he did it anyway, trying to figure out what had happened.
He'd gone to bed on the floor of an inn room. He'd woken up here.
"Hey," he said when a patrol guard walked past. "Where am I?"
The man sneered. "Where do you think?"
"Why? I didn't do anything!"
"Sure you didn't. Shut your mouth or I'll have you moved. You think this place is bad? You haven't seen anything."
Iggy watched the guard as he went past, and counted the locks again. Twelve cells. Six on each side. After that, the narrow hall turned and vanished out of sight, presumably twisting around to another stretch of cells parallel to this one. A heavy wooden door marked the wall at the corner. He'd seen guards come and go through that one a few times today.
In the cell across the hall, a decrepit-looking man watched him. He had long, snarled hair and a wild shock of beard, and stunk of ale. "Hey," Iggy said. "Why did they bring you in here?" The man looked away, and Iggy finally gave up.
The others had to be here, somewhere, but he was hesitant to ask about them. The guards wouldn't answer his questions, anyway, and he might just hasten whatever torture the Church had in mind for him. So instead he sighed and sat down on the cot, which creaked ominously.
He'd never thought of himself as particularly impatient, but this place made his skin crawl. The city was bad enough, a constant reminder of how brutally and completely nature could be conquered by man, but now he realized exactly how much nature actually still existed outdoors. Here there was no sunshine, fresh air, or rain. Just the dead stone, the dead wood, and the dead metal, nailed to each other like a festering crucifix.
He closed his eyes and tried to put it out of his mind. Back at the Scar, he'd been able to reach out and find a buzzard, to call to it through the wind. He decided to try that again—try to find a rat or something that might be able to help him figure out where he was and where his friends were. He stretched out with his senses, feeling past the countless wounds of the city, reaching for anything that could hear him.
He found deep pain. His mother had been so scarred he barely recognized her heartbeat. It was this same realization that had so affected him back in Keldale. And yet, this place wasn't the Waste, where nothing could survive. Here, indomitable weeds sprouted between the cobblestones no matter how often people pulled them. Trees broke their slow way into cellars and back alleys, growing where their seeds sprouted, no matter the costs. And there were countless rats and pigeons and alley cats—more than he would've expected, their song somehow even more feral than much of the symphony he'd heard in Ordlan Green.
He sought to join that song, at first, to declare his presence and call for help—but like the song in Ordlan Green, this one swept him up. He let it carry him away as he explored its peaks and valleys, its joys and sorrows. More than anything, the song spoke of hung
er; but also of sustenance. There was much to be gained here, for those who dared to steal the tall-walkers' dropped scraps. His mother's children in this place scrounged for their lives, dependent upon the tall-walkers for nearly everything, but the tall-walkers were so many that for most of them, it became a life of plenty.
Sniff out the crumbs. Avoid the tall-walkers' eyes. Dart out, claim, and dart back. Stay to the shadows; risk leaving only for food. It was a skittish life. Twitchy. Embodied perfectly in his trembling nose and wide, frightened eyes—
Which he now opened, taking in the cot's expanse, vast as a plain. It extended far beyond what he could see with his flitting eyes. And at its edge, a drop five times his own height which he scampered over without slowing—an instant of mind-bending terror as his body twisted and flopped through the air, then slapped to the stone, costing him a moment of breathlessness and a soreness in his ribs, but nothing more.
What is this? some distant part of his mind wondered. What's happened? But another part, a deeper part, remembered becoming a tree in the infinite dark of Ordlan Green; remembered communing with his mother so deeply that he joined her in her existence as all things. He felt, at once, that he should panic and that all was as it should be.
And as he did, he scurried across the broad stone and slipped easily under the cold metal bars.
Salt. Bread. Scat. Water. Other rats. Many other rats. Tall-walkers. Stone. Mildew. So many scents, bombarding him as he twitched and tried to make sense of them. He remembered a life where he had relied on sight, on that blurry blue-green mass that extended all around him, and wondered why he had ever bothered.
Food. Foodfoodfoodfoodfood. It was close, up the vast reach of the hallway and through the massive door. He chased it, his feet carrying him at a full run toward the corner.
But wait. There was something else. Wasn't there? Something besides food? Something from that other life, the one where he hadn't been able to smell anything and his sight had been the only thing that mattered?
Food, his rat-brain insisted. Food!
No, he argued. Friends.
A Season of Rendings Page 53
