A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  And he turned and limped down the passage, Kai's impotent hatred shrieking at his back.

  iv. Lyseira

  She had always claimed she was willing to die for her faith. Now, she was willing to die for revenge.

  She didn't try to rationalize it. She asked herself no questions about what Akir wanted, made no excuses about how Marcus's death would prevent him from hurting others in the future. Seth's visceral purpose was clean and unmistakable; there was no need to dirty it with empty equivocations.

  At her request, Harth cut a length of her hair and used it to make a wig for Seth. He bought hooded cloaks for her and Syntal. The next morning, wearing their modest disguises, the three left the others behind and made for the execution site.

  It was easy to find. A stream of people—somber and quiet—trickled toward it throughout the day. Marcus had chosen Keswick's central market square for his display, a long courtyard that, despite being narrower than the one in Keldale, nonetheless triggered horrific memories for her of the night of Marlin's burning. The square sloped gently downward on its northwest end, where the Church had erected a scaffold with a guillotine.

  They had scheduled the execution for highsun. Four hours from now, she thought as they entered the square, and the place is already packed. A bit of space remained at the far southeast edge, opposite the guillotine itself, but even that was filling quickly.

  "I'm going to the front," Seth said. "I want to be close, when he comes." He faced Lyseira. The tic in his cheeks had finally abated, but his eyes were stony. "Goodbye."

  Such a simple word. So small. It stabbed her in the heart.

  "It wasn't your fault," she found herself saying. "What happened in the prison."

  He flinched from her comfort, deflected his gaze to the ground until it passed. "No," he finally said. "It was his." Then he pressed into the crowd, and was gone.

  There are other choices, she tried to tell herself. It doesn't have to be this way.

  But she had already looked at them, and they all ended with her death or exile. She wouldn't give her life away for nothing—she wanted a death in return. And Marcus's was the only one she would accept.

  Syntal pointed to the roofs lining the square. "Look." Here and there, a few people had made their way up, to get a better vantage. "Better line of sight," she whispered, "and harder for the crowd to reach."

  Lyseira nodded and started for one of the storefronts. She thought Syntal was with her, but when she reached the building and glanced back, the other girl had vanished.

  She was alone.

  A few others joined her on the rooftop before the vining lattice they'd used to scale the wall broke. Getting down would be difficult, now. It was a good thing she wouldn't have to.

  She waited in silence as the hours passed. The crowd beneath her thickened. Some of the other rooftops fairly bulged with onlookers; on one, across the square from her, she thought she could see Syntal.

  On her own roof, a little girl asked her mother, "But why, Mama?"

  "I told you," the mother answered. "He consorted with witches." She was a few years older than Cosani had been, dressed not much better than Lyseira herself—and besides the new cloak Harth had bought her, Lyseira was still wearing only the rags Kai had found for her in Samson's dungeon.

  "But I thought he was good," the little girl said. "I thought he saved us in the winter." When her mother didn't respond, she pressed her: "Mama, didn't he save us?"

  "Hush," her mother said.

  Finally, the sun reached its zenith. A line of men in the scarlet livery of the Church's guard opened a line through the crowd, holding position to form a guarded path. Two clerics walked this path to the guillotine. Behind them came a Justicar, prodding a bloody man who could barely walk: the great Prince Isaic Gregor, brought low. They marched him up the steps to scattered booing from the crowd.

  Next came a Preserver, though Lyseira couldn't make out his face from this distance. And then, flanked by two more Preservers and followed by a small host of scarlet guards, came Marcus.

  She recognized his gait. His bearing. Head held high, an air of arrogance all around him. After what he'd done, she should've been terrified of him, but she wasn't.

  She was furious.

  Three Preservers, she thought. Even Seth would have trouble with that many, particularly experienced ones like those likely to be guarding Marcus. She had to do something to distract them. Pull them away. But I have to be careful with my miracles. I may only have time to work one before—

  Helix's warning about the mob rang in her memory, and she quit the thought before it could finish.

  Marcus ascended the scaffold now. One of the Justicars marched Isaic to the guillotine.

  "People of Keswick," Marcus shouted. The crowd quieted, allowing his voice to carry clearly throughout the square. "People of Darnoth.

  "Remember always that the throne and its power are gifts from Akir. The man before you, Isaic Gregor, forgot this. He violated the third Sacred Principle by seeking to command the use of miracles, and again by declaring his own wisdom to exceed that of God's. We now know he even ordered the slaughter of priests! His own tutor, Mother Angelica, who taught him from birth, and Broadsides' own Father Micah! Friends to the people, and good clerics."

  The crowd murmured their discontent. The people around Lyseira muttered, but she barely heard them through her building rage. He's doing it again, she thought. Blaming his own murders on those he wants to destroy.

  "Now," Marcus continued, "just two nights past, he threw in his lot with those who would destroy the world: a plague of witches. He ordered his own Crownwardens to free six of them from a Tribunal prison, and even now they run free in your streets. But these weren't just any witches! They were the very same ones that murdered Brother Matthew, for the simple crime of speaking his mind!"

  Again, a few in the crowd booed. Their ignorance shattered her restraint. Her fury erupted in a roar of outrage, a single word: "Liar!" For one clarion instant, every eye in the square turned to her.

  Marcus glanced up, then went on. "For these sins," he shouted, "he has been stripped of his birthright! Today, he is a prince no longer! Today, he dies!"

  Scattered cheering and clapping. Marcus nodded to one of the Justicars, who shoved Isaic to his knees and clapped the stocks around his neck. Then he turned back to the crowd, for a few there had started to boo.

  "Who dares?" he shouted. The crowd quieted at once. "Who dares speak against the will of the Fatherlord?" The square fell silent as death, all dissent quashed.

  Until Lyseira called, "I do."

  v. Seth

  Again, Marcus snapped his eyes to her. Everyone did. Even the Prince, to the degree he was able. Seth saw it all from his position at the base of the scaffold.

  But this time, she continued.

  "You speak of witches?" Lyseira shouted. "Well, here I stand!"

  The crowd gasped. An old instinct in Seth's head cried a warning. But he knew what she was doing. Enough agitation, and he'll be forced to send a Preserver after her. Maybe two. If Marcus took the bait, Seth could be at his throat in a heartbeat. He shoved the thoughts for his sister's safety from his mind and let her do what she could to help him. He couldn't keep her safe, anyway: he had proven that beyond a doubt.

  "You speak of the Prince's sins, but what of your own?" Her frail voice cracked under the strain, but the crowd fell silent again, allowing it space to be heard. "What of the fourth Sacred Principle, or the fifth? What about compassion? What about love?"

  Murmurs in the crowd. One of his Preservers leaned forward to whisper in Marcus's ear; Marcus gave a quick shake of his head.

  "I fed them in Tal'aden!" Her scream raw and breaking, laying her soul bare. "I taught them to read! Those are my sins! What are yours, Marcus?" The murmurs turned to growls. A thrum of violence rushed through the crowd, like the taut air before a storm. "What are yours?"

  Someone muttered a name. Someone else repeated it. Then it ripple
d through the horde like a rush of wind over a field:

  The Grey Girl.

  "You slaughtered them!" she wailed. "For wanting to read, for wanting to feed their children! You killed them for their sins! What do you deserve for yours?"

  Marcus started to shake, his granite composure finally cracking. He muttered a single word to his Preservers, one that could no longer be heard over the agitated crowd, but that Seth's eyes read: Go. Two of his Preservers peeled away, dropped easily into the audience, and started slicing toward Lyseira's perch.

  Now, Seth thought, his fingers flexing. Now. Now. Now. He could imagine the heat of Marcus's blood, the visceral thrill of its splatter against his face. Not yet, his training answered. Give them time to get clear, or they'll just come back and stop you.

  "For the sins of blasphemy and deceit?" Lyseira's was one lonely voice. "For the sins of murder! And kidnapping! Akir judges you, Marcus of Baltazar!"

  "Enough!" Marcus finally roared. "Seize her!"

  A man next to Lyseira grabbed her.

  A hawk shot from the sky and tore into his eyes.

  Marcus's Preservers reached the building and leapt, with a single, smooth jump each, to its roof.

  Seth turned from all of them and scrambled onto the scaffold, hungry for murder.

  "Another one!" Marcus shrieked, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Seize the witch!"

  Behind Seth, the mob roared. They surged up behind him, screaming, burning with hate—

  —and hurled the nearest cleric off the scaffold, where the rabid crowd below tore him to pieces.

  31

  i. Seth

  "My daughter!" someone screamed. "You killed her!" He barely heard it over the cacophony of other cries.

  "Die!"

  "Kill them!"

  "Save the Prince!"

  "I'll sehking kill you!"

  All of it like the crashing of a distant ocean wave: furious, powerful, ultimately irrelevant. He launched himself toward Marcus, who shied backward toward the scaffold's far end. A single, frozen image of his terrified eyes, his gaping, incredulous mouth, seared itself into Seth's mind.

  Then a Preserver's fist exploded into his left cheek. The world reeled, glazed with flashing stars. His training automatically forced his own fists up and blocked the second attack before it could turn those stars to darkness.

  He threw two darting jabs, dashed sideways, forced his opponent backward with a lunging straight kick. He didn't want to kill the man; he didn't have time. He just had to force him back far enough to get by.

  A swarm of furious peasants surged past him, crashing into the Justicars and other guards. The soldiers' swords flashed, cutting down the townspeople by twos and threes—but there were too many, their tide uncompromising. The flood of the mob washed over the soldiers, bore them to the ground, drowned them in rage.

  Marcus reached the edge. He's getting away. Seth roared and redoubled his attacks on the Bishop's last Preserver, desperate to get past—and a bolt of lightning blasted into Marcus. The floor beneath him exploded in bits of wood and super-heated nails. Syntal. The mob screamed and flinched back, the few remaining soldiers toppling into the crowd below.

  The bolt tore a livid, vertical slash through Seth's vision—but around it, he saw Marcus's Preserver glance behind him, toward his charge. Seth used the man's instant of vulnerability to snap his neck, then dashed past his corpse before it hit the ground.

  He reached the smoldering hole where Marcus had stood, but the Bishop was gone. He must have been thrown clear. The bolt should have killed him, but with a cleric, there was no middle ground. He would either be the same threat he was a moment ago, or he would be dead. I have to find him.

  Seth turned and scanned the crowd behind him: blood, rage, flashing blades and bared teeth. Not that way. He turned back to the crater the lightning had blasted into the scaffold, and dropped through. Marcus wasn't underneath either. He pushed through the black smoke and into the street beyond. There: climbing to his feet, his robes in smoldering tatters but his flesh already whole.

  For a sizzling instant, they locked eyes.

  Marcus brought his hands up. "Ayen get sil tar'r," he began, and Seth leapt, his fury catapulting him forward—and sealing his doom.

  The Binding snapped around him in mid-air. He tilted off balance, smashed knees-first to the ground, and felt his leg break just before the street rushed up to punch him in the face.

  ii. Lyseira

  The man who had grabbed her staggered backward, screaming and clutching at his bleeding eyes, before toppling off into the crowd below. The hawk pushed off from his face as he fell, launching back into the sky.

  She had barely registered this when two Preservers suddenly lit upon the corner of the roof. One strafed wide, cutting through the thin crowd to get behind her.

  This is it. Her heart quivered like a rabbit's. This is the end. Had it been worth it? Was Marcus dead? She would never even know.

  "Leave her alone!" the little girl shouted. "Just leave her alone!" She grabbed for the Preserver's hand and he casually backhanded her, sending her sprawling to the roof. The girl's mother growled and tackled him, hanging ineffectually from his back—but the few others on the roof joined her, shrieking, throwing themselves at him.

  The other Preserver still stood alone. Seeing his partner delayed, he came at Lyseira in a dead run.

  She seized the fire, calling on Akir to Bind him before he reached her. Now that Marcus had brought her attention to it, she could feel her hands rising in worship, could feel the movements of her tongue as it prayed.

  The Preserver blasted the miracle from her lips before it could finish. She fell backward, covering her head as he issued a precise, savage kick to her stomach. She vomited air, suddenly breathless as he brought his hand up to deliver a final death blow to her neck—and the hawk dove again, tearing into his face, buying her precious seconds. She lurched blindly sideways, desperate to roll clear.

  She rolled too far. The roof disappeared beneath her, and she plunged into the alley below.

  iii. Seth

  Empty, his training begged, but he could barely hear it over his howling fury. Damn it! he shrieked. No, no, damn it, no!

  "Did you kill her?" Marcus snarled.

  I'll kill you! he tried to scream back, but his listless tongue ignored him.

  "She fell," came a Preserver's stony voice. Marcus hadn't even been talking to Seth—he'd already forgotten his pathetic murder attempt.

  "The mob is coming," said a second. Seth could hear them, boiling toward Marcus and his Preservers, roaring. "We have to go."

  "The palace," Marcus said. "Galen's with Jan—we need to get him out of here. The mob will kill him."

  And they left him, shrieking against his invisible shackles while his every muscle hung limp. Their receding footsteps faded into the thunder of the mob behind him—smashing windows now, screaming curses and threats.

  From his place on the ground, he took in a tilted view of a small group of shops. One of them sold God's Stars and portraits of the Fatherlord. For this sin, they dragged the owner into the street and lit her on fire before destroying everything in the store.

  Eventually someone—his face a map of shallow cuts, a livid bruise glaring from his neck—crouched next to him and rolled him over. Seth felt the Binding finally slip away as he did.

  "Are you well?" the man shouted over the mob.

  "Marcus," Seth said, pointing the way the bishop had run. "They're going to the palace."

  "It's him!" someone shouted. "He was in front!"

  "Did you kill Marcus? Did you kill that sehk-eater?"

  "The palace!" Seth roared, stabbing his finger again in the direction they'd gone. "They're going to the palace to get Jan!"

  "Jan!"

  "That sehking dog!"

  And the horde was gone, stampeding after the bishop. The man who had stopped to check on him dashed away to join them. Seth started to lever himself to his feet, but a thrill of p
ain from his right leg stopped him.

  Damn it, he thought again. Broken. He couldn't walk with a broken leg. That was it, then: he'd lost him.

  Another failure. This time, his sister may have paid with her life.

  He balled a fist and gritted his teeth, a wave of rage shuddering through him before finally cresting in a raw shriek. He smashed his fist to the ground, then again, and again, until the flesh began to tear and his blood smeared the stones.

  Worthless. Useless. Still. After all these years. She saved me, and I couldn't save her.

  I couldn't save her.

  "Are you hurt?"

  The sound of the mob moved away, spreading its destruction north and south. A thin nog approached from the direction of the square, his hand cautiously extended as if Seth were a wounded animal.

  "Get Marcus," Seth said. "He deserves to die."

  "But your leg." The Bahiri knelt next to him. He gave Seth's leg a long look. Then he met his eyes. "You were the one in front. The one who charged him."

  Seth glared and said nothing. He had no use for sympathy.

  "What did he do to you?" the nog asked.

  "He tortured my sister," Seth said. "The one on top of the building. Sent two Preservers to kill her."

  "That was your sister?" the man said in his clipped accent. "The Grey Girl?" The syllables sharp but the words melted together: the gregurl.

  Seth nodded. It didn't matter.

  The man watched him in nervous silence. A decision came into his eyes.

  He took Seth's leg, and prayed.

  The miracle felt like Lyseira's: warm and heavy. Comforting. Not like the Church's miracles; not like the wound being torn anew. Seth stared in disbelief as his knee became whole.

  "Go," the man said.

  Seth gained his feet. He looked north at the central square, now nearly empty. His sister was there, somewhere, but the calculation was the same as it had been with Marcus: she was either the same threat she always had been, or she was dead. Either way, he couldn't help her.