Wait. There. The Soothe chant had used inverted syllables to do its work; was that another inverted syllable there? At the anchor. Reversed from Ves, which required a living being, which meant—
"Blesséd sehk," he breathed.
"Found the anchor?" she said.
"Death. It starts with death."
"Right."
"And then . . ." He traced the swimming words with his finger, tried to understand their truths without speaking them. It would be a lot faster to just chant it, he thought briefly, before his good sense got the better of him.
He Descended, shaking his head. The room became mundane, the world a collage of shadows. Vertigo danced in his temples, the price of his extended Ascension. "Couldn't get it. There's just . . . nothing there I recognize."
Syn nodded. "There's another chant, from the third wardbook. One I never shared with anyone, not even Angbar. I recognized a piece of this chant's function from there."
"Death?" The word tasted like an omen.
"Close. Some kind of . . . energy, dark energy. Almost like a void. The absence of energy or life. That other spell, the third-Seal one—I don't know exactly what it does, but it has something to do with vitality or life force."
"Maybe it can heal you?" What a thought that was. There was no reason chanter magic shouldn't be able to do just that, and it would change everything. "Like a miracle?"
"I . . ." She recognized it, he knew: the potential to upend an order they'd known all their lives. "I don't know, I've never used it." Normally he'd expect her to reciprocate his excitement. She didn't. "And I don't want to. You haven't seen it, Harth, but there's something about it I don't like. I thought about burning it."
"Burning it?" The words squelched his ambitions. He had never heard her talk that way. She sounded like Seth.
"I know, I know—I didn't, because I thought I might need it later for something . . . and it did come in helpful, here. But I don't want anyone knowing about it. I don't want you looking at it. We should use it for research, only."
"But . . ." He struggled to understand, or maybe to make her understand. "You have to realize how incredible it would be if chanters could heal like clerics can. The Kesprey are a big enough threat to the Church, but if we could do what we do and heal ourselves . . ."
"I know." She bit her lip. "I know, but―"
"If it was that dangerous, wouldn't Lar'atul have put some kind of warning on it? Did he say anything in the book?"
"No, he didn't." She caught his eyes. "Listen. It's just intuition. M'sai? But I'm asking you. Leave it alone. Don't read or share it."
"Sure. M'sai."
He'd agreed too fast; she saw right through him. "I'm serious, Harth. I kept it so I could use it for reference. That's all. There's something . . . wrong about it. Promise me."
Harth sighed. Now, of course, he was longing to see the damn thing. But Syn wasn't the type to block off knowledge. If she felt this strongly about it, maybe she had good reason. "Fine. I promise." A thought occurred to him. "Don't burn it, though. We may need to refer to it later, like you said."
"Right." She tapped the open book in front of them. "I know, and this spell proves it. It builds on that third-Seal one. Some of the syllables match. I don't know for sure, I still can't be certain, but I think it uses that same kind of dark energy. Infuses a corpse with it."
Harth's breath caught. First healing, now resurrection. "Blesséd sehk, Syntal. Are you saying―?"
"No. No, I don't think so. This is something else. I have no idea what kind of syllables would return the soul to a dead creature, but . . . this spell doesn't have them. I don't think it brings the thing back to life, but it does infuse it with some kind of energy.
"Something the chanter can control."
Harth's blood ran cold. "Like a . . ." He fumbled for the word; it had been a long time since he told Night stories. "Like a revenant? You're talking about a revenant?" She met his eyes in silence. "Some kind of walking . . . dead thing?"
"It's actually the most likely choice," she finally said. "'Each shall point the way to its brother.' This could create something that will lead us right to it."
Harth put a hand to his head. Wow. I wasn't expecting this. "Don't tell Seth," he managed.
Syntal nodded, eyes wide. "First thought I had."
A knock at the door made both of them jump. Syn Ascended, her hands ready to cast.
"Harth?" Ben's voice came through the door. "Runner just left a message for you."
"It's a'fin," Harth whispered, gently pressing Syntal's hands down. "Hey."
She glanced at him, eyes shining, and Descended before snatching her hands back.
"Harth?" Ben said again. "You'd better look at this."
Harth opened the door. "What? Something from Lyseira?"
"Hardly." Ben held out a small, folded parchment. "Looks like the King wants to see you both at highsun."
iii. Melakai
Last year, Isaic had met with Harth in a garden shed on the palace grounds, and with Lyseira in his receiving room. He was done with such informalities. Today, he summoned them to the throne.
Kai took his place standing at the King's right side, where his Preserver had stood while he lived. Isaic had brought most of his congress as well, from the spy master to the master general, and seated them along the lower dais. All told, he presented a contingent of a dozen servants, officers, and guards, while he himself looked down from the throne.
And Syntal alone could still kill the lot of us with a few whispered words, Kai thought. He understood Isaic's anxiety. There had to be a way to harness some of this new power for the throne.
A page showed Harth and Syntal into the room promptly at highsun. The King's demonstration of authority left them both suitably cowed. They knelt with mumbled declarations of fealty.
Where is Lyseira? Kai thought. He didn't need to look at Isaic to know his liege was wondering the same thing. I stuck my neck out for you, girl. You'd better not get it cut.
"I grant you leave to rise," Isaic finally said. As the two chanters rose, he continued: "Where is Lyseira?"
Harth and Syntal shared a quick glance. "I . . . haven't seen her since yesterday, Your Highness," Syntal said. Harth also shook his head.
Isaic chose not to follow up on the question. Instead he looked at Syntal. "You've returned from Thakhan Dar. Report."
Syntal glanced at Kai. He gazed back down at her impassively. "Yes, Sire. We . . . well, Kai was there, he saw—we were successful." She licked her lips and patted her pack. "The book is in here, if you'd like to see it."
"The book is mine," Isaic stated. "I funded and supplied your journey to retrieve it. It is now the property of the throne."
Kai steeled himself. You could have mentioned you were making that play ahead of time, he thought. She's not going to like that.
"What?" Syn finally said. "But you can't―"
"Of course, Your Highness," Harth interrupted. "We understand. We only ask―"
"The girl was speaking, Harth," Isaic said. "Let her finish."
Syntal blinked, her mouth working in surprise. "That book—you can't use it. You can't even read most of it."
"And why would I want to?" Isaic returned. "Kai told me everything that happened. He told me a dead man walked on Thakhan Dar, after the Rending. A claim so preposterous I wouldn't have believed it coming from the lips of any other person in my kingdom. Read it?" Isaic growled. "I've a mind to burn it."
"You can't do that," Syn said, and Kai saw Harth wince. "It's just as important―"
"Can't do it?" Isaic said. "Is that so? My own book, in my own throne room? And who are you to tell me what I can and can't do? A girl of eighteen?"
"A girl of seventeen gave you that crown," Syn said, her voice shaking.
Silence struck like thunder.
"Harth," Isaic finally said. "Bring me my book."
Harth paled and looked at Syntal. He murmured something Kai couldn't hear.
"You ca
n't," Syn breathed. "We can't just . . ."
He leaned in, whispered something in her ear. Then he took the book from the pack and brought it to Cort at the steps, who carried it to the King. Syntal stood, ashen and trembling, and watched.
"It's enough, now," Isaic said. "No more. You have no idea what risks you bring down on all of us with every new Rending. It stops here."
"It can't," Syn said. "The Stormsign . . . the only way to stop it is to open all the Seals." She had explained all of this before they had set out on their journey; she wasn't telling the King anything new. "If we stop now, the Stormsign will get worse and worse. Imagine the sun not rising for a month, or a year. Everyone—everything—will die."
"The worst Stormsign I've seen is this damnable winter," Isaic said, "and opening this last Seal did nothing to change that."
"They all have to be opened," Syntal insisted. "For it to work―"
"No. I'll not sit here quietly while you unleash a host of revenants. I'll take my chances with the weather."
She fell quiet, eyes flashing. This isn't over, Kai thought. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of Lar'atul's sword, preparing. She's not going to let it go.
"Your Highness," Harth said, eyes down. "There's something else you should know."
"And what is that?"
"We may not be the only ones seeking the wardbooks."
A heartbeat. "How is that?"
"We've encountered other chanters, as you know—there are scores of them in the city alone, but we've met others who have actually mastered their abilities without the aid of Syntal or myself. If some of them were to come across the chants in that book"—he nodded at the wardbook now on the King's lap—"or recreate them, they could reach the next wardbook on their own. That book gives you an advantage—it allows you to get there first. That means you get the new chants first, and can better maintain control."
"It does nothing of the kind," Isaic said. "It gives you better control. As the girl said, I can't even read this."
"Of course, Your Highness, but—what if we were sworn to you?"
"Sworn how?"
"By an oath. A pledge of allegiance."
Isaic scoffed. "A pledge has all the weight of the wind."
"Not to me." Harth dared to meet the King's eyes. "You saved my friends' lives, very nearly at the cost of your own. I haven't forgotten that. You issued the amnesty which allowed me to practice my magic in public, and to welcome those who needed to learn. I haven't forgotten that, either. The Church would have had me killed—would have killed both of us," he said, indicating Syntal. "Your amnesty is the first peace we've known in months. We're indebted to you for it."
He licked his lips, a vein pulsing at his neck. "Go on," Isaic said.
"I understand your unease with all of this. I share it. I traveled with Syntal and her friends before I knew how to do what she does, when I was as deeply at their mercy as you must feel you are. But now that I understand it, I want to use it for the good of the kingdom—for the good of the throne. When I came in here and swore fealty, those weren't just words to me. I meant them."
"And how do I know that?" Isaic said, but Kai sensed a softening of his tone. He remembered professing his own loyalty to the man last year, an abject and nerve-wracking baring of his soul that he had feared would result in his death—and had instead resulted in his promotion.
"Only by my words, so far—but give me a chance to prove it with deeds as well. Let me tell you everything we know. Every chant, every lesson, every warning these books yield will be at your command. I swear it."
Isaic considered. "And you?" he said to Syntal.
"The same," she breathed; unlike Harth, she wouldn't meet the King's eyes. "Always, I've never . . . I could never consider anything else."
"Then start now. Tell me something I don't know."
Syntal drew a breath. "The Fatherlord has learned to chant." As Isaic tensed, she went on: "The curse he placed on me failed this morning. That can only be because he's died, or the terms of my oath were fulfilled. We should assume the worst. He's learned to chant."
"Blesséd sehk," Cort said.
"Tavost," Isaic said, calling on his spy master. "Do you know anything of this?"
"No, Your Highness—at least, not as of yet. If the curse just failed this morning, there may be news yet to come."
"That makes it even more important to reach the rest of the wardbooks as quickly as possible," Harth said. "We may be in a race with the Fatherlord himself."
The King raised a hand. "Why would he want to learn your sorcery, when he can work his own miracles?"
"Because," Syntal answered immediately, "he fears us.
"We're faster than his clerics. Our magic is deadlier, and we can work more of it before we're spent—we can use our dying breaths to chant, if we need to." The tremor had gone from her voice, replaced with a surprising confidence. She's thought about this, Kai realized. This isn't the first time she's considered these arguments. "If you would allow it, Your Grace, I would train an army of chanters for you. We have a score of apprentices already, with more coming every day. When Tal'aden comes, you won't need to fear their clerics."
No. Kai knew what Isaic was thinking. He'd just need to fear you.
"They have hundreds of clerics, girl," Isaic said, "in Tal'aden alone—once the winter fails and they can reach every corner of the kingdom, they could gather thousands. What will a score of chanters do against thousands?"
"It'll be more than a score by then," Syn said. "There are nearly a hundred with the aptitude to chant, just in Keswick—just that we've found. There may be more still in the surrounding villages, in Colmon or Twosides."
"And if you were to extend your amnesty," Harth put in, his tone infected with Syntal's enthusiasm, "you could also reach every corner of the kingdom—to recruit chanters."
Again, silence fell. Finally, Isaic said, "You're talking about bringing in lions to control a rat problem."
"Not lions." Harth nodded at the Gregor flag draped on the southern wall, bearing the griffon and the lance. "Griffons."
Kai kept his gaze neutral, but even he felt a stirring at Harth's words.
"I'll consider it," Isaic allowed. "I want to see this school of yours. In Broadside, correct? The old initiate's school on Redding Lane?"
"Yes," Harth stammered. "That's it. Of course." He pointed at the entry. "Did you want―?"
"Not now. I'll have someone organize it, and I'll make a decision after."
"Yes, Your Highness." Harth shared another quick glance with Syntal. Kai could only imagine their excitement.
"One thing more," Isaic said. "The sixth wardbook—do you know where it is?"
This time, Syntal answered. "Not yet. We were working on that when your page—when we received your summons."
"How?"
"We were reading the spells." She gestured at the fifth wardbook, sitting on the King's lap. "There should be a way to use them to find the next book. That's the way I found that one."
The King took a breath. "Show me."
Kai felt the tension in the room impossibly tighten. That's a first, he thought. Ordering the use of witchcraft in the throne room. Angelica would have sehked herself.
"Now?" Syntal said. "Here?"
Harth jumped in. "She would need the book, Your Highness—we don't yet know all the―"
Syntal cut him off. "No. I think I know a few. I told you, I studied them on the way back—I just haven't worked one yet."
Kai's duty as Head Crownwarden prompted him to ask, "Is it safe?"
"It should be," Syn said. Kai glowered. "I mean, it—it's not a harmful spell, so unless it does something I don't expect it to . . ." She read his glare and finally acquiesced. "Yes. Yes, I think it's safe."
"Why don't you just back up a ways, in case," Kai said, moving to stand before the King. "Cort and Jacinth, in front of the stairs." The two Crownwardens did as he told them. "What type of spell is this? One I've seen?"
"No. It
's something new—it has to be something from the fifth book for it to work."
"What is it?"
"A . . . phantasm. An illusion. Of a book."
"Sounds harmless enough," Isaic allowed. "Proceed."
Syntal nodded and started to chant: a rapid streak of staccato syllables that reminded Kai a bit of corn popping. Her fingers darted in front of her before her hands leveled into a pair of crossed palms.
Behind her, a decrepit statue appeared in midair. It may once have been a kneeling man, but the elements had worn away one arm and most of the detail.
She glanced around, confused—then followed Harth's eyes to the illusion hovering behind her. "It should have appeared in front of me."
"That's no book," the King observed.
"No. The spell is pointing the way. This image must be key, somehow, to finding the book, and based on how it appeared behind me"—she glanced at the windows, placing the sun—"it must be somewhere northeast of here."
"Colmon," the King said.
Syntal spread her hands. "Could be. Or Ordlan Green, Bahir . . . even the Wild Fahrnar. With the last one, I triangulated from Chesport before we set sail. I'd need to do something similar again." A faint sheen of sweat glowed from her forehead. Her eyes grew realer by the moment.
"Does it trouble you?" the King asked. "To maintain it like that?"
"Yes, Your Highness. Like holding up a great weight. I can only do it for so long, and this—this is the heaviest spell I've ever tried."
The King stood, peering from his dais toward the illusion. "It looks so real. Kai," he said, bidding Melakai to move. Kai accompanied him down the steps, so he could look at the hovering phantasm more closely. There he raised a hand and pressed a finger to the statue. "I can feel it," he said. "It's cold. Are you sure it's not real?"
Syntal raised her own hand and passed it through the phantasm, which shimmered like a mirage. When it did, the king's finger, too, passed through it.
Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3) Page 14