Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3)

by Adam J Nicolai

  Seth caught up with her, waiting, his eyes unreadable. The weight in Lyseira's chest threatened to drown her.

  "She has to be here," she said. "She has to be well." She pounded once more, calling again, and heard an echo from Syntal just across the street, calling for her Auntie.

  The latch clicked. The door opened. A pale woman answered it, thin as sticks, leaning heavily on a rough-hewn cane. "Lyseira?" she breathed.

  "Mom," Lyseira said.

  Then she pulled her mother into a hug, sobbing.

  "They were here for about a month," Mom said, after she'd settled them in at the kitchen table. Winter had been unforgiving to her supplies: the pantry was empty, the cupboards nearly bare. "Then I think they finally realized we didn't know anything."

  "A month." Seth looked at Lyseira. "Keldale."

  "Did they hurt you?" Lyseira asked. She barely recognized the woman sitting across the table. Mom had never been heavy, but she'd been plump and healthy—a woman happy to leave her courting days behind. This person was gaunt, the skin withered against her skull.

  Mom held her eyes for a heartbeat. Yes, Lyseira realized. They hurt her. What did they do?

  "No," Mom said, waving Lyseira's concern away. "They had some questions, but when they realized I couldn't help them, they left me alone."

  "Was it Marcus?" Lyseira bared the question like a knife. "Did he question you?"

  "Some," Mom allowed.

  "Is that why you have a limp now?"

  Mom chewed at her lip, tears standing in her eyes. "Others had it worse. Bella and Kevric. Minda and her family—anyone close to Helix, really. I don't think they realized how big a role you played in the escape." A hint of fire came into her eyes. "I certainly never told them."

  She's still in there. That spark was her mother: fiercely protective of her children, defiant to the last.

  "There's no food here," Seth said, scanning the kitchen. "And you had no logs outside."

  Their mother nodded. "It's hard for me, with the leg. Horace was helping me with the logs, Lord bless him, until he caught this curséd watercough." She paused, panting, as if the act of speaking had winded her. "As for the food, Ardenfells shared out what they had, we all did, but this winter is just . . ."

  "We have food," Lyseira said. "And we can stay. Help with the logs—help everyone."

  Mom started to answer but a sudden coughing fit seized her, thrashing her until she sagged against the table.

  Lyseira lurched to her feet. "Are you sick?" She came around the table. "You sound terrible."

  Mom panted, slowly fighting to get her breath back. "It's just . . . a little watercough," she managed.

  A little watercough? People die of watercough.

  "That . . . deacon they sent here—he left, last year. Not enough silver to be made, I suppose. We haven't had a cleric since―"

  Lyseira called on Akir, and flooded her mother with flame.

  The cough spirits had burrowed deep into her lungs, but the fire scorched them out; it brought down her fever and soothed the pain in her throat, too. Lyseira sought out her crippled leg, but it had already healed: Marcus's damage, now carved permanently into her bones.

  "Lyseira," Mom gasped. "When . . . ?"

  "On the road. The night we left." She opened her pack and pulled out that morning's manna, unwilling to spend another minute watching her mother starve. "Here. Eat."

  Mom took a bite, then gave her a suspicious look. "Lys, this tastes like―"

  "It is. Just eat." Lyseira sat back down. "I have a lot to tell you."

  ii. Melakai

  He accompanied Syntal across the street while Seth and Lyseira pounded on their mother's door. Despite its state of disrepair, he could tell the Smith house was nicer than most of the others: bigger, with real glass windows and a stately raised front porch.

  "My uncle's a smith," Syntal explained as she led him up to the door. "Family trade. They took me in when my parents died." She knocked as Lyseira did the same across the street. "Auntie?" she called. "Uncle, are you there? It's Syn."

  Maybe don't shout your name in the middle of the street, Kai thought to warn her—but Hel, who was he to say anything? The girl could take care of herself better than he could.

  An emaciated woman opened the door. "Syn?" she said, eyes wide in disbelief.

  "Auntie." Syn gave the woman a quick hug. "Are you well?"

  "I―" She looked the girl up and down, then darted her gaze to Kai, standing behind her.

  He cleared his throat and offered his hand. "Melakai Thorn, ma'am. Captain of the Gregor Crownwardens."

  Her face broke. "Oh, God," she whimpered. "No, please. I told you I don't know anything. Please. I don't know―"

  "Auntie, no." Syntal pushed inside. "It's a'fin. He's not . . . he came here with me. The King sent him with me."

  She thinks I'm here to arrest her, Kai realized. "Ma'am, no—I promise, she's telling the truth. I'm not here to hurt you."

  Syntal's aunt watched him, mouth covered, eyes darting.

  "Come in," Syntal said to Kai. "It's all right. Kai, this is my aunt Bella." Kai extended a hand; Bella shook it limply, like a woman trapped in a dream.

  Syntal moved past her into a large sitting area, the bare wood of its floor stained with the shadows of a missing rug and two large chairs. Now the room had only a single, simple rocker, near the crackling fireplace. "Is Uncle here?"

  Bella shook her head, her face breaking. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, Syn," she managed.

  "What happened?" Syntal paled. "Was it the Tribunal? Did they―?"

  "No. Not them. A usurer."

  "A user . . . what?" Syn glanced at Kai, floundering.

  "Usurer," he supplied. "A moneylender." During the trip, whenever the kids had talked about their parents, Syn had always made it sound like the Smiths had been well off. Something must have changed. "What happened?"

  "Kevric got a commission, finally, to make this ornamental sword. He borrowed the money to craft it, but the buyer backed out. And this awful man, Elgan Tricke—he came for payment. Kevric offered him the sword, but he wanted crowns. We couldn't pay. We didn't have it. He . . ." She braced herself, forced the words out. "He took Kevric."

  "Debtor's prison?" Kai asked, but the theory rang false in his ears.

  "He said . . ." Again Bella nearly broke trying to form the words. "He said they were going to sell him."

  Syntal sank into the rocking chair, disbelieving.

  They can't do that, Kai wanted to say. Slavery had been outlawed in Darnoth for hundreds of years. But it was a king's law, not a Church's law, and that meant the Church could create exceptions—and often did, particularly for banks and moneylenders, who could make it worth the effort. "Your niece has the ear of the King now," Kai said, hoping the words weren't as empty as they felt. "If there's anything we can do to find him, I swear to you―"

  "Helix," Bella said to Syntal as if he'd never spoken. "Is he with you? Is he well?" She opened the front door again, looked up and down the snow-shrouded street. "Helix!" she called.

  "He didn't come, Auntie," Syntal said.

  She shut the door, trembling. "Is he well?" She handled the question like a butterfly, a fragile thing. "My boy, my Helix—is he . . . ?"

  "He's alive," Syntal promised, and sighed. "But . . . I think you should sit down."

  iii. Iggy

  For the entire journey, more than a month now, he'd been bracing for the reunion with his parents. Secrecy, that was the plan: they had never understood his abilities, and he felt no need to enlighten them now. Let them know I'm alive, he thought, make sure they have what they need, and hope like Hel they haven't heard any stories about me. The idea of having to explain himself—especially to his father—filled him with dread.

  He was spared the worry. His old house was empty.

  They're gone, a she-raccoon in the kitchen told him. Took everything. Nothing for you here.

  How long ago? he asked. When did they go?

>   Don't know. Maybe a few moons.

  Which way did they go?

  The raccoon ignored him, rooting through the remnants of some jars in the cupboards. Nothing left, she whispered. But I just make sure. There used to be so much.

  Iggy checked all the rooms. They'd taken everything they'd need for a journey—blankets, horse feed, Ma's little supply of dried wurmroot and blackweed. Outside, the wagon was gone, along with the sleigh rails and the spare axle.

  They planned it then, at least, he told himself as he scanned the empty stable. It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. That didn't mean they had actually made it to safety.

  He sat down. The stale horse-and-hay smell he had always known had a bitter tang to it now: the bite of frost, pervading everything. He closed his eyes, and cast his senses outward.

  Winter muted most of nature's voices: worms and many insects died, while other creatures—everything from ants to bears—slept quietly as death. And this winter was particularly brutal, killing many of those who might otherwise survive, like the raccoon that now lived in his old house. But the Pulse still beat. The symphony of life, though reserved, still played.

  He stretched into the frozen earth, and joined it. He felt every rock and rutted scar, stretching for miles in every direction. He brought his focus to the road, sought the peculiar tenor of humanity or the particular mark of his parents.

  It was no use. They were gone. But just as he was about to return to himself, a whiff of distant rot bloomed at the edge of his perception—like passing through the kitchen and catching the scent of a turned egg—and vanished as quickly as it had come.

  He halted, tense, waiting to see if he could pick it up again. The earth's deep, wintry slowness seeped into him, urging him toward hibernation; the sky's endless grey weighed him down. What was that? he asked, the wind carrying his question in curling swirls of snow and shrill whistles through the naked tree boughs. There was a rot. He thought of the wolves and deer that would still be active in the winter, tried to find one he could question further, but no one answered his call.

  Then, as if opening a larder door to discover a host of maggots, he caught it again. The stench hit him full in the face this time, a blast of revolting decay. Something black and rotten roiling the land to the north, its nauseous presence sending quivers of agony through the Pulse like prey struggling in a spiderweb.

  He severed his connection to the earth as if lurching awake from a nightmare; found himself alone in his parents' house, the smell slowly fading. He felt like throwing up.

  Instead he dashed outside, eyes combing the landscape for some sign of whatever horror he had just sensed. It had been so hideous, so arresting, that for a moment he was certain he would find it hovering on the northern horizon: some black fog or incomprehensible monster.

  But he saw snow—just snow.

  "What in Hel," he murmured, his fingers gripping the door jamb as he fought to hold down his breakfast. "What in eternal Hel was that?"

  iv. Lyseira

  She didn't want to share certain things: her revelation about the Fatherlord's mundanity; Syntal's role in creating the first Storm; the brutality of the riot she'd started in Keswick. But she'd never been able to lie to her mom.

  She didn't realize she'd finished the story until she reached for more words, and found none. She wanted to grovel or beg forgiveness—for turning against the Church Mom had raised her in, or simply for reaching too far—but she held her tongue. She'd seen too much, changed too much, to be ruled by old instincts.

  When Mom finally spoke, her words brought Lyseira to tears.

  "I'm so sorry, Kitten."

  She hadn't realized how much she'd been dreading her mother's condemnation until its shadow lifted. She drew a shuddering breath, too relieved to speak.

  "I didn't know. I always thought . . . I was raised in it, just like you were. I never questioned . . ."

  The revelations were too heavy for Mom's tongue, just as they'd been for her. Lyseira snatched her hands, trying to hold back the tears and failing. "You believe me?" She meant, You think I did the right thing? You still love me?

  Mom barked a nearly-hysterical laugh. "It's too crazy to make up! You don’t have the imagination for it!" The smile died. "I believe you. I just . . . it's a lot to take in."

  Lyseira closed her eyes, allowed herself one fervent instant to simply squeeze her mother's hand. Thank God. Oh, thank You. "I was worried you would . . ."

  Hate me.

  " . . . think I'd gone mad."

  "No," Mom said. "No. It's all overwhelming, but—no, Kitten, of course not." She came around the table, pulled Lyseira into a hug. Lyseira let herself melt into it, let all her fears and doubts fade for those few precious moments―

  Until Seth said, "It's not safe for you here."

  Mom looked at him.

  "Now that King Isaic has named Lyseira head of the new church, Marcus will remember where her mother lives. I'm surprised they haven't come already, taken you hostage."

  "All the more reason for us to stay," Lyseira said. "She needs our help—the whole village does. With that cane, and the wood and food supplies running low . . . we can help cut wood, and I should be able to keep everyone fed until spring."

  Mom looked troubled. "But I thought you said—aren't they expecting you back?"

  Lyseira shook her head. "There's no rush. Some of the old clerics joined us, after the riots—they know more about the city than I do. And besides, Takra and Angbar are there . . . Angbar helped me a lot in Tal'aden, he knows what to do. They don't need me."

  Mom didn't seem convinced. "Lyseira . . . you started a new church."

  "I didn't mean to," Lyseira said. "It just . . . happened."

  "Kitten." Mom touched her shoulder. "You can't stay."

  "We won't! Just until the snow melts. You're going to starve here."

  "No. You're not hearing me." Mom sat again, her eyes serious. "Akir granted you miracles the night you first defied the Church. That's not coincidence, Lyseira. It's providence."

  "I . . . I know, but . . ." She was done with omens, now; she would never again try to divine Akir's true desires by grasping at shadows. He can speak to me, she thought. I've heard Him. So let Him speak.

  As if she'd heard her thoughts, Mom said, "You told me you heard His voice. He told you to feed them."

  And I did! she wanted to rail. I have! But He'd said nothing since then, no matter how she reached out, no matter how many long hours she spent begging in the dark. It was her childhood with The Abbot all over again, but worse, so much worse, because now an entire city of believers expected her to know what to do. The King expected her to know what to do, and God wouldn't answer!

  He could answer, He had answered her before . . . but He wouldn't!

  The same as in Alynwood, Keldale, Tal'aden—again and again, He restored her faith only to spit on it and turn His back, but this time was worse than all the others, worse by far, because this time . . .

  This time―!

  His scorn made her want to scream.

  "You don't understand," she snapped. "M'sai? I know what I heard. I know what He expected." He knows your heart, Marcus had told her in a reeking dungeon in Keswick. He knows how scared you are. So why wouldn't He answer? The same old questions, the same reeling panic, but now He'd left her with a city of fawning acolytes to manage while He vanished. Do you want me to pretend I know the answers? she had demanded. Do you want me to be the Fatherlord all over again?

  She fought to get her tone under control. "Mother, I appreciate your advice, I do, but this is my choice. You don't understand—you can't understand."

  "We can bring her back with us," Seth said, oblivious to her angst. "That way―"

  She whirled on him. "Open your eyes, Seth! They are dying here! I'm not going to leave our home village to starve!"

  Isn't that what you're doing to Keswick? a voice in her head asked, a voice that sounded frighteningly like her mother.

  No, s
he retorted at once, because they have clerics there. They have dozens of clerics there. They don't need me! Southlight does!

  Seth shrugged. "So we bring them with us. Half the town is gone, and it was small to start with. Anyone who wants to come should fit on the Talon."

  "We can't just drag a whole village to Keswick!"

  "We wouldn't drag anyone. Only those who wanted to go."

  "I'll come," Mom said, "if it'll make it easier. There's nothing left for me here."

  Lyseira glanced from Seth to her mother, her dread building. For months she'd been telling herself she hadn't run, but now the truth tore into her:

  She had run.

  And she wasn't ready to stop.

  4

  i. Harth

  "I said no! Now get out of here, or I swear to God I'll call the Blackboots!"

  Another door slammed in his face, the fourth this afternoon. He sighed and dug a rumpled parchment from his pocket. Blue Brick Lane, he thought, scanning the sheet. Blue Brick Lane . . . there. He crossed it off with a pencil and found his next destination: Boarshead. Four blocks west.

  He folded the parchment, put it back, and started off.

  The King had issued amnesty over two months ago. He'd sworn that any person who admitted their sorcery would be treated fairly. Harth, who had been instrumental in convincing the King of the necessity of that step, had waited with bated breath as peasant after peasant had found their courage and come forward . . . to Lyseira, and admitted that they could heal.

  Lyseira named them all Kesprey, took down their names, and gave them a room in the temple if they wanted it. Meanwhile, not a single chanter answered the King's amnesty. Not one.

  It was maddening. Not only because of the months Harth had spent seeking the King's attention on the question of amnesty, but because he knew there were chanters in the city. He could see them! Syntal had shared the chant she'd written that allowed her to find Harth when they'd first arrived in Keswick last year. With it, Harth had been able to see scores of people who had Ascended. He'd even watched one of them listen to a crier read the King's amnesty notice, shake her head, and walk away.