Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3)

by Adam J Nicolai

Angbar returned her smile. "I'll bring you right up to the gates."

  "Thirty-five hundred?" Isaic repeated, stunned.

  Lyseira beamed at him. She couldn't have hidden her smile if she'd tried. "Yes."

  "Bushels?"

  She laughed. "Yes!"

  "That's . . ." He paused, searching for the right word. "Impressive."

  Lyseira laughed again. "It's a miracle."

  Isaic nodded his concession. "That it is."

  He'd met them in his marble receiving room again this time, presumably because he had already heard rumors of the good news. Kai and a few other advisors were with him, while Lyseira had brought only Seth and Elthur.

  "Your Highness," Elthur ventured, and Isaic nodded. "I've made an early tabulation of the numbers and with your permission, would be happy to share them."

  "I'll want to have Logan go over those," Isaic said, glancing at his treasurer, "but yes. Please proceed."

  "We've lost count of how many hungry come to the temples and city feeding corners every day, but based on my best estimate, this wheat—once fully threshed and winnowed—should feed them for two weeks. A month, if we cut to half rations—which I would recommend anyway. The number of hungry grow every day."

  "A month," the King repeated. The word glowed with hope. Yesterday, they'd all thought they would be starving inside a week.

  "That should take us well into Shimmerfall," Elthur continued. "Hopefully, by then―"

  "This damnable winter will finally end," Isaic said. "Yes. Good." He looked at Lyseira. "I thought you were mad. I thought we―" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Thank your God for me, next time you talk to Him."

  "I will," Lyseira said, and meant it.

  They left with the blessing of the King and his promise to send them the men they needed to finish harvesting and threshing the field. Numbers danced like flashing blades in Lyseira's head. Two weeks at full rations. A month at half. But it won't be that long, because more people run out of food every day. How many need to be fed? 20,000? 40? Maybe one-third rations would be wiser. Akir's miracle could save them, but depending on how long the winter lasted, it would still be a close thing. They had to be careful. They weren't safe yet, not by any means.

  Still, she went to bed that night with her heart brimming with thanks and praise, more confident than she had been in years. She dreamt of His embrace and His love, of His voice telling her to Feed them.

  And when she woke in the morning, she learned that the entire field—all fifty acres—had grown new wheat, again, in the night.

  10

  i. Iggy

  I'm not dead.

  The revelation didn't elate or perturb him; it was simply a fact to acknowledge. At most, he felt a twist of surprise that he still existed.

  His eyes opened to a dim, familiar cave. The winter sun glowed beyond its mouth, cold and grey, though whether it was fading to dusk or building to morning, he had no idea. He lay beneath his heavy fur blanket atop his damaged clothes, which had been spread out to form a thin, makeshift bed. He noticed the coppery taste of blood, the gamey smell of bear.

  Then he realized his pain was gone.

  The fever had vanished, leaving him spent but steady. There was no trace of the stink of the spirits that had infected his wounds.

  My wounds.

  He lifted his blanket and looked down at his naked body. In place of the livid gash that had spilled his guts open and severed his spine, there was only a sucking scar. His flesh was whole. And—his breath caught, tears threatening to overflow with emotion—he could wriggle his toes.

  He gasped, laughing.

  You're awake. A great silhouette rose in the darkness: a horned bear. I knew it was only a matter of time.

  What happened? Iggy asked, bewildered with relief. I thought I had died. I was ready. My legs—

  I found your herbs in the creek bed and brought them to you. You were delirious and told me how to work them. Kabel helped. We mixed them into mud, worked them into your wound. You don't remember?

  I don't remember anything. Iggy shook his head, struck dumb by the Ciir's words, stupefied even by the blanket that covered him. How long has it been?

  Days. Ciir-bunta followed his gaze to the blanket, then nodded at the ruins of Iggy's shredded travel pack, strewn about the cave. Kabel's work. Wanted your blanket for you, grotesque as it is. He also pulled off your coverings, made them into a bed.

  He did? Somewhere in the wasteland of his memory, he seemed to recall the bear trying to eat him. Where is he?

  Hunting. He fed you. You wouldn't chew rabbit meat, so he poured the blood down your throat.

  He fed me? Iggy licked his lips, tasted the dried blood there. What about him? He was starving.

  He ate the meat, Ciir-bunta said. Well. We fought over the meat, but he got some of it.

  Iggy sat up with his back to the stone, stunned. You saved my life.

  Bunta stepped into the grey light, his eyes heavy as they met Iggy's. We did.

  Why?

  Bunta heaved a great sigh. Because, Speaker, I'm hoping you can tell me where I am.

  Bunta knew nothing of the Seals, or Syntal's efforts to break them. He had heard of the Raving Witch and her war with the Kesprey, but only as distant rumors. In his time, apparently, the Fahrnar Highlands had been rolling hills, covered with forest; the Sealing must have agitated the land somehow, broken it like the mountains it bordered.

  Iggy whispered everything he knew. Bunta interrupted rarely, seeming to soak in Iggy's bizarre tale as if it were perfectly normal. He grieved, yes, and expressed mild surprise—but on the whole, he took it much better than the Ciirs-kahls and Goath had, or indeed, than the entirety of Ordlan Green.

  When Iggy finished, he expected some kind of lament from the great bear. Instead, the animal whispered, What was the darkness you fought on the ridge?

  The question blindsided Iggy, flooded him with memories of the short battle and its aftermath that he would rather never dwell upon again. I don't know, he said. I was hoping you could tell me.

  I have no wisdom, Bunta said, only fears. If I could, I would call to the Deep-Tree in Ordlan Green—she would know better than I.

  Iggy nodded. She's still sleeping, like I told you. Maybe opening the sixth Seal will wake her, and you can ask her then, but if you don't know for sure, just—

  Iggy drew a breath. Braced himself. Give me your best guess.

  I fear it was an abomination, Bunta finally said. A work of necromancy, like that of the Raving Witch. I've seen its kind only once before, but this one was worse—the wounds it inflicted on the Pulse were deeper. Malignant. He shook his head, his horn swaying in the dim light. The Deep-Tree would know, he repeated.

  What about Ciir-goath? Of Ordlan Green?

  Iggy felt a flush of hope from the great bear. Yes. He would know as well. The animal's hope faded as quickly as it had come. But without the Deep-Tree, there's no way to speak to him. All Ciirs can commune with Mother Ordlan. She keeps us aware of each other. He wilted. Without her, we're alone.

  I can reach them quickly. I've done it before. Ordlan Green is only two days away as the hawk flies, maybe less.

  The hope returned. You will do this?

  I have to, Iggy whispered back. That thing, whatever it was, it . . . He imagined it entering Ordlan Green, slaughtering the Ciirs on its way to Mother Ordlan's meadow. I have to warn them. Find out if there's a way to stop it. Even as he whispered the idea, though, hopelessness gripped him. The man in black had been unlike any combatant Iggy had ever faced—fast, alien, and powerful. Even the dragon's dark had been less frightening.

  Bunta rose. Then it was good to save your life. The bear drew close, sniffing and snuffling Iggy's cheek. May the wind have your back, Speaker.

  It will. Iggy climbed to his feet, his legs shaky after their ordeal. Despite the lack of fire in the cave, Bunta's heat kept it pleasantly warm.

  Iggy dug through the remnants of his pack, looking for his spare cl
othes. As he got dressed, he felt a shadow of worry steal across the great bear's mood.

  And by soil and root, Bunta whispered, be careful.

  ii. Helix

  He clung to the lifeline of the near future as he pressed through the hallway, clerics and servants swarming around him like fish in a school. In the last week he'd gotten much better at finding and holding on to that lifeline; now, he could even sometimes use his impressions of where people would be in the next second or so to dodge them as they nearly ran through the halls.

  An electric energy had overtaken Majesta, strong enough that even he could feel it, provided he was holding his lifeline. The miraculous wheat field the Kespran church had planted had grown anew every morning in the week since it had first sprouted. This miracle now had a name, spoken on wondering tongues throughout the city: Winterwheat.

  The city's food problems had quickly vanished—there was enough wheat to feed every mouth in the city, plus the remaining livestock—and he'd heard that plans were now turning to the surrounding villages. Akir had blessed them with a bounty, Lyseira had declared, and it was their obligation to share it. The hardest part now was logistics, and it was this task to which everybody in the temple had turned. Now, finally, the first mission to deliver wheat was set to leave for the village of Colmon later this morning.

  He made his way through the buzzing energy of dozens of conversations, running clerics, pages, and servants, and endless prophetic visions crashing at the levee he'd finally managed to construct to hold them at bay. No one noticed him—or if they did, they didn't stop. He'd started making more frequent excursions out of his room of late, so maybe they were getting used to the blind boy stumbling through the hall.

  He followed his lifeline back to his room. He wouldn't find any visitors there today—he knew this not because of how busy the city was, but because he saw the room the moment before he entered it. That was all right by him. He slipped through and shut the door behind him, grateful for the relative quiet of his churning visions.

  Syntal hadn't been back to visit since she'd first returned to the city. Angbar had a few times, and so had Ben—despite his new place of residence in Syntal's chanter school, halfway across town. But it was lonely being a cripple, especially when so many also probably thought he was a madman.

  He crossed the room to his bed, where his father's rapier leaned against a nightstand. Through the lifeline and the stories his own fingertips had told, he'd been able to see it: a gorgeous piece, its hilt dotted with jewels that shattered the light into rainbows, its blade an exquisite length of perfect steel. Helix hadn't seen every piece his father had ever crafted, but he still knew this was the man's finest work—both functional and elegant, suited for a baron's display as easily as a warrior's grip.

  Mom, apparently half-mad with grief, had given Syntal the weapon when she'd visited, and asked her to leave it with Helix. She'd wanted him to have it.

  Nearly three weeks since she returned, Helix thought, and she's done nothing to find him. He didn't know that for certain—he'd only seen his cousin once, the day she came back—but at the same time, he was certain. He knew her. She had a new wardbook with secrets to delve and an entire chanter school to lead. These temptations would be too strong for her. The prospect of a mundane investigation into her missing uncle's whereabouts would pale in comparison.

  Oh, she would pay lip service to it. His plight might even trouble her dreams. But when she woke, when she actually spent her hours every day, the school and the Seals would take precedence.

  On top of that, a new story seemed to surface about her every day: some altercation at the Winterwheat field that had left people dead, agitators outside the school demanding the Witch of Southlight be kicked out of the city. But he'd heard no rumors about that same witch's efforts to find her kidnapped uncle.

  It was different for Helix. He couldn't think of much else.

  They took my dad.

  It was his first thought when he woke and his last before he fell asleep. It made him sick and left him feeling utterly powerless.

  Where was he? If he was still in Darnoth, and Helix could find him, maybe the King could intervene on his behalf—but Helix had heard too many stories over the years of the Church shipping slaves up to Bahir, sometimes even overseas to Shalda or as far as Borkalis. He had spent countless hours agonizing over it in his room—a room that was starting to feel like a prison cell.

  I have a good grip on the lifeline today. I've gotten better at keeping the churn back. I could go out and do some investigating of my own.

  His heart quickened at the thought, but his excitement quickly curdled into anxiety. He knew nothing about the city, and even less about the slave trade. He wouldn't have the first idea where to go or who to ask.

  So go to the same person you always go to—Harth. If he doesn't have the answers, he'll at least know where to look.

  He hesitated on the edge of the bed, fingers running over his sword's jeweled hilt as thoughts warred in his head.

  I know where the school is. I can find it.

  If the churn overtakes me out there, I could be robbed.

  It's such a fine weapon. It deserves a proper name.

  Then he strapped the sword on, dug out his winter gear, and felt his way into the hall. He reached the chapel without trouble. He'd become part of the background at Majesta, just as he thought, and no one stopped him.

  But when he stepped into the vestibule, Angbar would see him. His friend would enter through the front doors at a near run, hurrying to deliver some news.

  He threw his hood up and turned away, pausing as the lifeline played past just as he'd seen. Future became present became past; Angbar burst into the chapel and hustled by, never sparing Helix a look. When he was gone, Helix made his way out.

  The cold hit him first.

  He'd been in that damn room for months on end, floating in a stew of prophecy while the world outside had fallen to winter. It had been like living a hundred lifetimes, and during them, he'd forgotten the touch of cold.

  But he was also a child of the Valley, and Southlighters knew their winters.

  He gritted his teeth and turned up his collar. Cinched his coat tighter. He'd be damned if he was going to act like some Northerner because of a little nip of cold. And the bite to the air had a welcome, secondary effect: it helped the lifeline, gave him something solid that pushed the churn back further still.

  He pushed into the cold, relishing it, and made his way into the city he'd never known.

  iii. Melakai

  A revolution in Keswick that had swept the old Church out. A transformed city, where even witches were granted amnesty and a new king reigned. Sweeping changes, historic changes. And yet, somehow, he still hadn't spoken to his granddaughter.

  In the instants after she had killed Shephatiah, the mob had blasted through Majesta like a river jumping its banks. They had been separated. And in the days following, Isaic's orders and all the burdens of a city reborn had kept him busy. In his rare moments of quiet, when he wondered about her, he contented himself with the knowledge that the priest's blood on her hands had kept her alive when the mob found her, and that she worked now for the young woman who had saved his liege's life.

  Then came the early winter, and the trip to Thakhan Dar. The weeks had turned to months. Even though his reasons for avoiding her had been torn down by the revolution, his inertia remained. His fear of what she thought of him.

  Today that changed. She was leaving for Colmon soon, with the caravan. Now is the time, he told himself. Do it now, or set it aside forever.

  The little mob in the alley—Glora's people, no doubt—heckled him as he approached the chanter school, but he ignored them and went inside. The front room was electric; scores of people talking, chanting, practicing. He'd never felt so much energy in one place, so much excitement. If this is her life now, he thought, she doesn't need you, old man. After a quick scan of the room, he didn't see her. She could be in the back,
or maybe not even here.

  "Stupid," he muttered, turning to go—and caught her out of the corner of his eye, just a few tables away, sitting with two other students.

  The first time he'd approached her, after ten years, she'd spurned him, and she'd had the right to. But she'd saved his life on the day of the riots, freeing him from the Majesta dungeon before the mob could kill him. He wallowed in indecision, and finally forced his mouth open.

  "Takra," he said. Her name broke in his throat, impaired by disuse and apprehension. She didn't hear it. The three kept talking. One of her companions laughed.

  He cleared his throat and thought to call her again, louder. But she wasn't his dog, and he didn't want to summon her like one. Instead he approached her, set a gentle hand to her shoulder, and said it again, softer: "Takra."

  The conversation died. His granddaughter looked up at him, her eyes not condemning, but not welcoming either. "A moment," she said to the others, and pulled him into a quiet side room. "What?"

  It wasn't the welcome he'd hoped for, but it was enough. I never thanked you for getting me out of the Majesta dungeon. He'd rehearsed the line, had it planned for months, but now that the moment was here, it sounded awfully thin. On a sudden burst of instinct, he decided on something else. "I wanted to . . . I was hoping you could come for dinner one of these nights."

  It took her by surprise. Her voice was neutral as she said, "What?"

  "Dinner. I'd like to talk to you, get to know you. Tell you about your dad, maybe."

  She shook her head as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You think a dinner can make up for what you did?"

  The words pricked him. A flood of desperation leaked through the wound. "Takra, if I could do it over, if I could take those years back, I'd do anything to get you out of there. Even if it got me killed."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that after they killed your father and took you away, there wasn't a day that went by I didn't go over everything in my head. Try to find some way to make things right."