Ravencaller

by David Dalglish

  CHAPTER 29

  Dierk relaxed in his chair, the heat of the nearby fireplace welcome upon his cold skin. Just an hour ago he’d joined Vaesalaum on a trip to a dark street corner and drank the memories of a murdered man in his sixties. There’d been dozens of joyful moments in his soul, time spent with families, and an adventurous trek across the Cradle from his original home in Nicus, across the South Orismund grasslands, and up the river to Londheim after a stint as a fisherman in Wardhus.

  To have a life like that, Dierk wondered. More and more he felt a calling toward something greater, to relaxed moments with friends and family and songs around campfires without caring if one butchered the words or could not hold a tune. Dierk had lived his whole life carefully measuring his every step. To dip into the existence of another who moved through the world with carefree abandon was… exhilarating.

  Such a life is not meant for Dierk, Vaesalaum said from his perch above the fire. The nisse looked practically obese from its recent feedings. The cheeks of its face were puffy, and its belly, while still not particularly large, looked swollen on its lanky, serpentine body. Dierk didn’t bother to argue. Honestly, he knew he should be paying attention to the conversation happening on the couch nearby, where his father and the Royal Overseer were having a frustrated argument over their combined futures.

  “We can’t count on troops from Wardhus and Stomme,” his father was saying. “If they’re going through anything like us, they will keep their soldiers close to home.”

  “You really believe they’ll commit treason?” Albert asked.

  Soren shrugged and sipped from his short, wide glass.

  “Overtly? No. But how many excuses might they pile atop one another to explain not coming? Disrupted trading channels, destroyed crops, monster attacks; they could tell us anything and we’d have no choice but to believe them.”

  Albert rubbed his eyes and groaned. Londheim’s leaders had a meeting during Dierk’s absence about how to deal with Belvua’s seemingly permanent presence, and they’d come no closer to a solution than when they began. Albert had accompanied Soren back home, the two letting off steam as they drank in private. Dierk had quietly joined them upon returning to the mansion.

  “You’re probably right,” Albert said. “As much as it stinks to high heavens. I sent riders to both Steeth and Trivika when this madness first started, and I’m yet to receive a response from either. Both the church and the crown appear either oblivious to our struggles, or uncaring. Neither one’s good for us out here in the west.”

  “Then we make do with what we have,” Soren said, ever the practical one. His father never acted as if things were out of his control. He presided over Londheim like he did his own home, with an iron fist that seemed much softer and gentler when in public. “The walls of Londheim are strong, and the emergent miracles of the keepers in producing food for the poor have alleviated much of the threat of riots. We’ll endure. These trials will not break us.”

  “Easy to say, but when an army of inhuman creatures finally arrives at our gates, what in Lyra’s name are we supposed to do about it?”

  Dierk’s ears picked up at the mention of an army. He knew plenty about the Forgotten Children and their takeover of Low Dock, but the idea of full-blown armies of dragon-sired marching across the lands ignited his imagination.

  “What armies?” he asked, and thankfully his father gave him an approving nod.

  “There’s three that we’ve received confirmed reports of,” Albert said. “And they match the threats that strange deer-like King showed us. There’s the rabbit people to the east, more of the dyrandar crossing the Triona River to the south, and pretty much in all directions we’re hearing reports of… what did Cannac call them? Viridi? Grass people. They seem capable of creating fortresses of dirt and grass in mere hours. Driving them back will be a nightmare, assuming we ever build a sizable force capable of marching out of Londheim in the first place.”

  “Give it time,” Soren said. He drained his glass and stood to refill it from a nearby shelf that held over a dozen different bottles of wine. “And keep sending your updates to the east. Once the shock of these changes passes, neither church nor crown will allow our lands to be stolen from us by these… monsters.”

  That earned a laugh from Albert, and he held out his glass so Soren could refill it along with his own. Both of them were visibly intoxicated. Their previous meeting must have been pretty awful for them to be so eager to drink away its frustrations.

  “Yes, these fucking monsters,” Albert said. “But how in the world do we wage a campaign to retake our lands when we can’t even take back a single district in our own city? It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

  The atmosphere was so relaxed, and Dierk’s mind still floating from his stolen memories, that he didn’t even hesitate to offer his advice. After all, the solution seemed so obvious, so easy.

  “Why not just give the creatures in Belvua amnesty and start living with them peacefully?” he suggested.

  Both older men stiffened in their seats. Dierk realized how badly he’d misjudged the room by their bloodshot glares.

  “Amnesty?” Soren asked. “Do you know how many of my guards those creatures have murdered? How many innocent people they’ve forced out of their homes?”

  “Homes in Low Dock,” Dierk added, bewildered by his sudden courage. “Innocent people you didn’t give two shits about until the creatures moved in.”

  Albert tried to break the sudden tension with a charming laugh, but even that was beyond his charismatic capabilities.

  “The people in Low Dock may be poor but they are still our people,” he said, flashing that winning smile of his that had earned him his position in the first place. “Though I will admit that perhaps we should be more willing to listen to the troubles and complaints of these creatures instead of viewing them as mindless monsters trying to steal our lands. Had I done so, the tragic loss of Cannac might have been prevented.”

  “Indeed,” Soren said, his eyes never leaving Dierk. “Albert, it’s late, and we’ve both had a bit too much to drink. I hope you don’t mind if I call it a day so I might have some time to speak with my son.”

  “Of course, of course,” Albert said, pushing himself up from the padded couch. “I’ll try to visit tomorrow. General Rose promised an update on her new recruitment drive.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The two shook hands and then Albert retrieved his coat from a polished wood hook and exited the lounge. The door shut, swallowing Soren and Dierk in silence. Soren remained where he stood, looking nowhere. It was almost as if he were counting. The moment he reached his set number, he whirled on Dierk, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and flung him against the wall.

  “Where the fuck do you get off proposing such an idea?” his father seethed, his face inches away. Dierk’s entire vision filled with those angry, bloodshot eyes. “Amnesty? You’d have me dismiss all their crimes and recognize their claim on Low Dock? How can you be my son and yet so damn stupid? Don’t you realize how weak that would make me look?”

  “What does it matter if—”

  Soren struck him across the mouth to shut him up. Blood shot from his lip to splatter little red flecks across the bricks of the fireplace.

  “Albert may seem like my friend, but he is still an elected politician with his own agendas and his own circle of friends,” his father continued. “You absolutely cannot criticize my view of Low Dock’s people without making me appear heartless or cruel. Appearances matter, damn it. Albert left this mansion debating mercy for monsters and convinced my son thinks he can backtalk his own father.”

  Soren’s fist slammed into his stomach so hard Dierk thought he’d vomit.

  “Fucking—”

  A second fist, this to his chest.

  “—un—”

  A third fist, again in the stomach. Dierk’s knees quivered, and he fought back sudden tears.

  “—acceptable.”


  Dierk crumpled to the ground as Soren walked to the wine shelf. He drank straight from a bottle as Dierk gasped and struggled for breath. He sniffled despite hating himself for his tears. He let out a soft moan of agony despite hating his weakness. All the while Vaesalaum floated overhead, taunting him.

  Dierk’s father reminds Dierk of his place. Crying on the floor. Pathetic.

  Soren finished his long draught and set the bottle down atop the shelf with a thud.

  “You’re no longer allowed in any of my meetings, official or otherwise,” he said, his back to him. His voice was calm, collected, as if they were discussing the weather. As if Dierk weren’t crying on his knees with his insides trembling in pain. “I’m done trying to groom you as a proper replacement. At this point I’ll be lucky to have my career survive your careless intrusions.”

  A shame, Vaesalaum said. You lose your usefulness. Should nisse seek another to instruct?

  “No,” Dierk gasped through clenched teeth.

  Soren slowly turned.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  Dierk hadn’t meant to address him, but now that his cold fury was directed his way, he felt an eerie calm wash over him. He rose to his feet, spat blood upon the carpet, and grinned at his father.

  “Never hit me again,” he said. “If you do, I will make you regret it like you would not believe.”

  “You’re right,” Soren said. He picked up the bottle he’d previously drunk from and downed the last of the wine. Once it was empty, he held it like a weapon. “I don’t believe you. Has something crazy dug root in your head, boy?”

  He calmly approached, but Dierk sensed a change in his father. This could be it. This final outburst might be the last straw. That glass was thick, and should it break, its edges would be sharp. Dierk pulled back his shoulders and extended one of his hands. He stared in the eyes of his father, and in them he saw something far more monstrous than anything he’d seen in the presence of the Forgotten Children.

  “Anwyn of the Moon, hear me,” he said. Immediately he felt power gathering inside his chest. It flowed out his fingers, invisible to the physical world but visible to his nisse-blessed eyes in the form of thin strands of spider-silk. The words of the third chapter of the Book of Ravens flowed across his tongue. They wrapped about his father, holding him in place as he listened with frightened rapture. Vaesalaum circled above him, a smile on its blind face.

  “Before me stands a man disgracing the light of his soul. His mind rejects peace. His heart rejects love. Break his pride. Split his stubbornness. Give to me, in my superior wisdom and faith, control.”

  Soren’s body convulsed. Drool rolled down the sides of his mouth. He squirmed and raged against invisible chains that kept him rooted in place. Dierk clenched his hand into a fist, and he channeled every piece of his willpower into that spell. It didn’t matter that his extremities went numb and dark spots started to clutter his vision. He was done being humiliated. Vaesalaum had given him power. The Book of Ravens had taught him how to wield it. The beatings, the insults, the cruelty: today it all came to an end.

  Something cracked in Soren’s mind, and at last his limbs fell still. He stared at Dierk with a perplexed expression on his face.

  “What is it you want?” he asked.

  “I want you to grant amnesty to the magical creatures,” Dierk said. “And I want you to recognize Belvua as the new name and identity of Low Dock.”

  “That’s insane,” Soren started to say, but a convulsion cut him off. His head jolted to one side, and he flexed as if lightning were coursing through his veins.

  “All right,” his father gasped, suddenly out of breath. “I’ll do it.”

  Dierk felt his heart pound in his chest. Was this it? Was it that easy? It felt like a cloud over his family mansion had lifted. The fear and care that had guided his every step no longer felt necessary. The looming, terrifying specter that was Soren Becher… had he truly defeated it?

  “And I want to be at every meeting of yours,” Dierk added. He felt drunk on his newfound freedom. “No, change that. I want permission to go in your place and make decisions in your name.”

  Again Soren rebelled against the idea, but it didn’t last as long as the first time. Eventually his muscles relaxed, and the fiery spirit died in those gray eyes.

  “Of course,” he said. “It’s only proper that my son take a larger role in politics. After all, everyone knows you’ll be my successor one day.”

  Dierk laughed and skipped in place. His smile spread ear to ear.

  “You hear that, Vaesalaum?” he asked the fat ethereal thing still hovering over Soren. “You still think I’m useless? Still think I’m pathetic?”

  Vaesalaum curled into a circle that resembled a bow.

  Vaesalaum proven wrong. Vaesalaum happy Dierk finally showing true self.

  “Damn right,” Dierk laughed. He rushed to the wine shelf and drank of vintages his father had expressly forbidden. The warmth spreading through his stomach could not compete with the joy in his chest. It felt like a vise had been removed from his rib cage. It felt like those moments near the end of sex in the lives he relived. It felt so fucking good.

  “Is that all?” Soren asked, still patiently waiting in the center of the lounge.

  “Oh, trust me,” Dierk said as he wiped a bit of spilled wine off his chin. “We’re just getting started.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Adria sat before Alma’s Greeting, a long line before her stretching down the many steps and into the street. Midday bells chimed from one of the cathedral’s towers behind her.

  Three hours, she thought as the next in line came forward, seeking healing for her crippled leg. I’ve been at this for three hours.

  There was a time when healing only a few people had driven her to exhaustion, but now at hour three she still felt capable of harnessing the power of her faith to mend flesh and banish sickness. That she was getting stronger was undeniable. What it meant, however, she was still uncertain.

  “Mindkeeper?” asked the crippled woman.

  “Forgive me,” Adria said, snapping back to attention. “It has been a long day.”

  She put her hands upon the woman’s leg and prayed the 22nd Devotion, and she tried not to wince at the sight of her wrist, which still bore the scars from the void’s touch. Moments later the crippled woman practically skipped down the cathedral steps, a joyous smile on her face and a song on her lips. Adria used that joy to fuel herself when exhaustion tugged at the borders of her mind. The next in line started to move, but a novice blocked the way at the behest of Faithkeeper Sena.

  “You need not push yourself,” said Sena. She had joined Adria in healing the sick at the start of the day, but tired after only a few prayers. Still, that was more than she could do the day before, a growing in power that many were starting to experience.

  “I’m all right,” Adria snapped, harsher than she meant.

  “No, you’re not,” Sena said. “And you best realize that before you injure yourself.”

  Adria paused before responding. Things had been tense between them ever since she’d used Sena’s soul to defend the church. Outwardly, her friend had insisted she understood, and forgiven her. Adria, however, could see her hidden emotions swirling within her soul, and it hurt her to see the little flickers of fear and doubt that had begun to grow.

  “I will take a break if I need one, I promise,” Adria said.

  Sena didn’t appear convinced, but she squeezed Adria’s hand and then gestured for the novice to bring up the next in line. It was a woman carrying an infant that looked just shy of a year old.

  “What is your need?” Adria asked.

  “It’s—it’s my son,” the woman said.

  “Is he ill?”

  “No, I don’t think so. His crying. It isn’t normal. And he doesn’t play. I think… I think he’s soulless.”

  Adria felt a pang of sorrow in her chest.

  “Soullessness isn’t an illness to be he
aled,” she said.

  “I just want to know,” the woman insisted. “Please, can you look at him?”

  Adria closed her eyes for a moment and then reopened them. The world dimmed, but amid that world shone hundreds of twinkling stars. They were the souls of the people gathered before her, shimmering within their skulls. That little boy, though? She saw only dark. Adria blinked away the vision and sadly shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Alma did not deliver your boy’s soul to his body upon his birth.”

  The woman clutched the child closer to her. Tears swelled in her eyes. She acted like her son had been handed a death sentence, and in a way, he had been.

  “The church will take him in if you are unwilling,” Adria said softly. “He will be fed, clothed, and bathed. No harm will come to him.”

  “Please,” she whimpered. “There must be something you can do. There must! You’re the Sacred Mother reborn!”

  “I am not the Sacred Mother,” Adria said with a sharper edge than she’d intended. The Sacred Mother was the first woman granted a soul, and whose progeny had populated the Cradle with life and light when humans had been mere soulless animals. That wasn’t her. She bore no sacred blessing from the Goddesses. She was a freak granted power by Janus and his strange, frightful machine beneath the city.

  “But you command souls!” the mother said, and her panic increased to match Adria’s ire. “You can help him, I know you can, I know it!”

  A pinprick of panic stabbed at Adria’s throat. Yes, she commanded souls, but there was no soul there to command.

  Wasn’t there?

  “Come along now,” the young novice nearby said, stepping between Adria and the mother.

  “Wait,” Adria said. The novice glanced back at her. “Just… wait.”

  The mother froze and held her breath, anticipating a miracle. Adria prayed she might give her one. Her eyes shifted, returning to the world of souls. Ever since she’d awakened with this power, there was one matter she had been fearful to address. Though it hovered at the edge of her vision, she had not looked, nor probed it with her mind. To do so might mean answers, and that knowledge frightened her.