"'Took me away'?" Takra spat. "Do you think I'm some kind of idiot?"
He'd said something wrong. He lurched after it in the dark, hunting, but couldn't catch hold of it. "I . . . I don't―"
"You gave me to them. You think I don't know?"
His breath caught in his throat. "What?"
"Ten years. My whole childhood. Do you know what he did to me? Do you have any idea?"
He remembered Shephatiah twisting Takra's breast through her robe during the riot, remembered him hauling her about by her hair. Oh, God. No, he didn't know what she'd been through. He only had an inkling. "Takra, I never―"
"You put me there," she snarled. "You expect me to believe you wanted to get me out? How stupid do you think I am?"
"None," he stammered, "not at all, I don't think that, but—Takra, babygirl, you've got to hear me now. I didn't give you to them. I would never." Babygirl. The pet name summoned old memories of a chubby-cheeked girl with a blinding smile, stale sensations of her little head resting on his shoulder. It had just leaked from his lips. He hadn't used it in a decade.
She fell silent. Maybe he should've waited, given her the next word . . . but the atrocity of her accusation, the enormity of it, pried his mouth open.
"They . . . took you. They killed your father, and stole you. Said you were a witch. You know what they do with miracleworkers—they force them to join the Church, or kill them. I—sehk, I would've run off with you. I never would've given you to them—I hate them."
She rasped a single word, hoarse and vulnerable: "Liar."
"No. No. I'm no angel, Hel, I'm as bad as they come, but no. Never. Not this. I would never." She had to believe him. She had to. "Please, Takra, I swear. My own son? My own granddaughter? I loved you." He had never craved forgiveness so much. "Still do."
Her breath turned shallow, her shoulders hitching. "Ah, God," she managed. "Ah, sehking . . ." She turned away, one hand to her face, and a horrible suspicion dawned in him.
"Who told you that?" The question came out cold and perfect as an ice crystal. And he realized the answer before it finished passing his lips.
"I don't remember his name. He ran the Blackboots."
But Kai knew his name. He knew it as well as the blood in his veins. "Demetrius."
"Yes." She sniffed and swiped a quick hand across her eyes, still refusing to look at him. "Demetrius. That was it. But why should I believe you over him? He had no reason to lie."
"Trius had every reason to lie," Kai said, seething. "He's the one who turned your father in. He's the one who told the Church about you."
"What?" Her voice broke, appalled. She believes me. His relief was outweighed only by his frothing rage. Ah, thank Akir, she believes me. "Why?"
"Because he was one of them. Because he was a brainless lacky, a person of faith." He spat the word without regard for its sanctity, or its meaning to Takra. "Because he thought the law should be followed no matter the blood it's written in, and I—sehking fool that I am—I was stupid enough to think he was my friend."
Her face was a mask of horror and confusion.
"I never told him about you. But I still said too much, and he figured it out. He went to the Church. By the time I found out they knew about you, it was too late. They'd already come to the house. They'd already taken both you and your dad. There was nothing I could do. I . . ." The guilt seized him, a wolf shaking a rabbit. "God, I didn't even know it was him. I didn't even figure it out until that day in the dungeon, just before you saved me. He admitted it. Said he'd done it for . . ." The words choked him. They tasted like bile, but he forced them out. " . . . for your own good."
"He said it was you," Takra breathed. "I always thought it was you."
"No," Kai swore again. "No." He would repeat the word until her last doubts vanished. "Never."
"Papa?" Her voice broke on the word.
Then he was holding her, quaking in his arms as they both cried.
iv. Harth
He woke on his back, to Syntal's touch on his chest; opened his eyes to find her looking down, satiny black hair a shroud around her face, framing not only the brilliant green of her eyes but her tantalizing nakedness.
I could get used to this, he thought, and felt a languid smile break over his face.
"Come on," she said, mirroring his smile but shoving at his shoulder. "Get up with me!"
"One more hour," Harth mumbled around his impertinent smile. He closed his eyes and stretched.
"No!" She batted his shoulder. "I have to go! Come on!"
"Go ahead," he teased. "No one's stopping you. Go out into the cold and the snow. Never seen you in such a hurry to spend a week with Seth." He opened his eyes again in time to see her scowl. "Or"—he slid his arms around her, pulled her close enough to nibble at her neck—"you could spend"—he worked his way to her earlobe—"another hour with me."
She gave a delicious gasp, a sound that did more to wake him than any of her other attempts so far—and pulled away with a groan.
"Nooo," she moaned. "There's no more time for that! Come on, now!"
"Bah." Harth started to stretch again, eyes riveted to her body, and she ripped the blankets off him. "Agh!" She may as well have plunged him into a snowbank. "Hey!"
Even worse, she now wrapped herself up in them. "Stay in bed if you want," she said as she turned away, "but I have to get up. I need to be at Majesta in an hour."
It was Harth's turn to scowl. He rolled off the bed and pulled on a rumpled pair of breeches. "They won't leave without you," he grumbled.
Syntal scoffed. "Seth might."
Harth couldn't deny that much. He shrugged. "Would that be so bad? They're only going up to Colmon. That's what—fifty miles from here? You'd have to head up to Fen'akir to get any real idea—or even better, Shaadenvale. Somewhere in the Old Kingdom." They'd already had this discussion a few times; he wasn't exactly sure why he was bringing it up again. Her illusion in the King's throne room had appeared northeast of her, which had made her certain the sixth wardbook lay somewhere along that line. But then why go northeast, to Colmon, to cast again? It would make more sense to go nearly any other direction, to try and triangulate a position.
She finished with her underthings and started pulling on her traveling clothes. Harth watched her body disappear beneath them with a pang of sorrow. She fixed him with a disapproving look. "I'm not going over all this again. They're already going to Colmon. I'm just tagging along. It's a good chance to get a second cast in—might be the last one I get for a while." She reached back and pulled her hair free of her shirt. It tumbled down her back, a waterfall of lustrous black.
Kiir, Harth thought, she has no idea how gorgeous she is.
She caught his eye and peered at him. "You know how important the wardbooks are."
He'd been braced for a confrontation about his feelings for her—a challenge like, I think you're just going to miss me. In truth, he wasn't prepared for that. He had half-expected that his obsession would break after they slept together, as it had with all the others. Instead, it had intensified. Somehow, he wanted her even more.
He'd thought he was happy after the Witch's Amnesty. He'd thought he was happy after the King had listened to his ideas for a chanter corps that swore loyalty to the throne. But since Syntal had begun sharing his bed, it was like a curtain had been pulled away, letting in a stream of sunshine. Everything that had been good before was brilliant now; every happiness magnified to joy. In its way, the feeling was as strong as Ascension.
"Yeah," he finally said. "I know."
Now she was leaving. Just for a few weeks, hopefully, but thinking of her absence felt like blasting a hole in his chest. The feeling was childish. Pathetic.
And he was completely at its mercy.
They earned a few significant looks as they emerged from Syntal's room together. He'd heard the whispers in the study hall over the last couple weeks. Their secret—such as it ever was—was out.
He didn't mind. He greete
d the sidelong glances with a broad grin and a wink. "Morning, Oster," he said to the awkward young Bahiri man slicing a loaf of bread for breakfast, then nodded to the woman turning toward the study hall. "Rebecca." She flushed and looked away—a reaction that would have snagged his attention in a heartbeat if he wasn't already so deeply satisfied. Sorry, love, he thought languidly. I'm off the market.
"I'm starved," Syntal said, making for the bread herself.
"Can't imagine why," Harth whispered to her, and she elbowed him.
The study hall door caught before it closed behind Rebecca, and Takra burst through. "Are we leaving?" she said. "I have to get my things—I'm packed, but I . . ." She gestured back toward the room. "My, ah . . . my grandfather just . . ."
"It's all right," Syn said. "Hurry."
Takra nodded and dashed past them to the dorms. Harth felt a whip crack of jealousy.
"I didn't know you were looking for company," he said.
"I didn't know you were interested in coming," she threw back. "All you've done is complain about what a pointless journey it's going to be."
Yeah, he thought, because I didn't want you to go.
She saw his look and softened her tone. "Look. She's really good at chanting—she's wasted sitting around here all day helping people learn mantras and light spells. We can practice together on the road; I can get a feel for how much talent she has. I just didn't want to waste the time, that's all."
Waste the time? He shook his head, suddenly angry, and left her to finish her bread.
The study hall was already abuzz; the noise and the excitement helped to put Syntal's pet student out of his mind. Rebecca and Kirkus huddled over a scroll together, puzzling out Spellsight, while Belline practiced the basics and Torthan continued work on his own first custom chant. His idea had promise: he wanted to carve out the elements of Slumber that let it affect multiple minds and splice them into Ves, so that spell, too, could strike multiple targets. Syntal had expressed concern about that—Torthan had barely mastered the chants from the second wardbook—but Harth was inclined to see what the man could do.
Tal'aden would march in the spring, and none of them knew how much time that left them. To Harth's mind, that made the cautious approach the wrong one. If ever a time called for a bit of healthy recklessness, it was now.
He crossed to Torthan's table and leaned in. "How's it going?"
The man had a few winters on Harth; his thirtieth was probably not far off. He had a broad, jutting jaw and an unfortunately heavy brow that led some to mistake him for a simpleton. Harth had quickly learned how wrong that perception was.
"Bad," Torth said simply. "I think Syntal might have been right—there are pieces here I'm missing. They might be in the third circle."
"There's a lot of new ideas there," Harth conceded. "Maybe take what you've got and set it aside for now. You can work with Ben on―"
A knock came at the front door. Harth glanced up, his pulse quickening. It was probably just another blood fever referral from Majesta, but Glora's hecklers had gotten bolder since Syntal's mishap at the Winterwheat field. He crossed the room, ready to Ascend, and opened the door to find Helix.
Syntal's brother looked like he hadn't eaten in days. A dirty blindfold hung loosely around his eyes; filthy street slush spattered his heavy winter cloak. "Harth?" he said.
"Helix," Harth said. "How did you―?"
"I have to talk to you," Helix said, pushing inside. "It's important."
"Right now?" Harth moved aside to let his friend in, then closed the door behind him. "Syn's about to leave for―"
"Yeah. Now." Helix threw his cloak back, revealing a fine rapier in a simple sheath at his belt. "I need to find the man who loaned my father the money to make this sword. Someone in Shientel named Elgan Tricke."
"What? Why are you asking me?"
"Because you know that area. You knew the circles in Keldale, right? This Tricke is involved in the slave trade."
"Whoa!" Harth held up his hands. "I never had anything to do with that."
"But you . . . knew about it, right?" Helix's head roved, blind eyes searching. "You knew . . ." He put a hand to his head, wincing.
"Sure. I knew just enough to know who to avoid."
"M'sai," Helix said. He sounded desperate, his breath sour. Harth wondered when he'd last bathed. "So who did you avoid?"
"Helix?" Syntal emerged into the main hall, with Ben and Takra just behind her. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm trying to help Dad, Syn," Helix snarled. "Unless you've learned something. You've looked into it, right? This Tricke person?"
"I . . ." Syn glanced at Harth, a glimmer of guilt in her eyes. "I haven't had a chance to―"
"No. Of course you haven't." Again, Helix squeezed his forehead. "Here and now," he murmured. "Here and now, Kiir, would you please just shut up."
"You should be at Majesta," Syn said. "You need to lie down."
"I don't need to lie down," Helix snapped. "I've been lying down for years. I'm done lying down."
Years? Harth exchanged looks with Syntal as Ben took Helix's hand. The elderman had cared for Helix at the temple for much of the winter, before he'd come down with the blood fever.
"Ben?" Helix said, as if he recognized the man's touch.
"No one's lying down," Ben said. "It's all right. You can still have a seat, though, right over here."
"They sold him," Helix said as Ben led him to a chair. "Did she tell you? They sold my sehking dad."
Bitch's tits, Harth thought. Syntal wouldn't meet his eyes. You never said anything about—
"Who did?" Ben said levelly. His gravelly voice promised concern, authority.
"Elgan Tricke. He got my dad to go into debt making this thing, but the buyer never paid for it, so Dad couldn't pay him back."
"Tricke." Ben looked at Harth. "I heard of him, when I worked in Shientel. Years ago."
"You know him?" Helix pressed.
"Sure. It's been some time, but I might be able to find something out—once the weather clears."
"You've got to help me," Helix said. "They sold him."
"We have to leave," Takra said. "They're going to go without us."
Syntal nodded and ducked past the questions in Harth's eyes to open the door. The crowd across the street saw her and launched into a riot of shouts and boos. Someone lobbed a snowball at her.
"Hey!" Harth barked.
Syn and Takra ignored them and hurried away down the street.
v. Lyseira
On the second morning of Winterwheat, Lyseira had thought Akir was simply making sure Keswick had enough to survive the winter. By the fourth morning, she had realized His intent was far greater.
As word got out, people flocked from the city to see the ripened field for themselves. Elthur or Angbar roped most of these gawkers in to help harvest. By the third day, they had nearly 500 people working the field—enough to harvest the entire field by sunset, to make sure the next day's harvest would have room to grow—and another 500 threshing the wheat on the western road. They didn't have nearly enough flails, so those waiting for one got creative: leading horses in to tread on the wheat with their hooves, pulling wagon wheels over it, even stomping on it with their own booted feet. Children danced and played, laughing as they slammed rocks into the wheat heads. There was a feeling in the frozen air the likes of which Lyseira had never felt before, in Keswick or even back home in Southlight: a euphoria, a fierce joy. The people of God, reveling in His work and His rewards like an old story out of scripture.
And the volunteers didn't just come out to the field. The awe of Winterwheat forced many to their knees, triggering an internal reckoning that pushed them to the church in droves—some just to donate or help how they could, but many who had heard God's calling and wanted to become Kesprey themselves. Some even worked their first miracle, in tears of joy, there on the frozen roadside. They rejuvenated those who had worked themselves raw. They healed the cuts and scrapes of the fiel
d work. And—Lyseira marveled to think on it, the beauty of it took her breath away—they summoned manna.
The first day of Winterwheat saw a score of new Kesprey join the church. The second saw twice that, the third saw twice again. On the fourth day alone, nearly two hundred new believers set aside their old lives and pledged to serve Akir.
Finally, Lyseira realized Akir's plan. She wasn't just supposed to feed the faithful, nor even just the city of Keswick. She was to feed the entire kingdom.
It proved harder than she expected to wrangle the King's blessing at first. They had come close to starvation, and had no idea how long the field would keep producing, so Isaic had tended toward caution. Melakai pointed out, though, that any nearby towns who had been fed by Isaic over the winter would be far more likely to call him their King in the spring—leading Lyseira to point out the number of new believers who had become Kesprey, and speculate that the same could hold true from charity missions. Kesprey and peasants with bellies full of the King's grain would be loyal to the throne. Isaic had finally agreed, granting her leave to bring 600 bushels of threshed wheat up to Colmon and send a second group with another 600 bushels down to Bitterfork.
They had loaded the wheat onto a trio of broad-railed sleighs, pulled by sturdy draft horses. Melakai and a half-dozen soldiers rode in their own sleigh, while Angbar, Shaviid, and a few other Kesprey would accompany Lyseira in hers—along with Seth, of course. Syntal, who thought there may be a clue to the sixth wardbook in Colmon, was also supposed to be coming. The girl arrived late, just as Seth began insisting they set out without her, along with another young woman who was a sight for sore eyes.
"Takra!" Lyseira jumped down from her sleigh and ran over to greet the girl, who returned her smile. "Oh, we've missed you! How are things in Broadside?"
"Well enough," Takra said. "I heard you have your hands full here." She looked around at the barrels filling Majesta square. "It's incredible, just . . . incredible. I'm sorry I haven't been able to come by to help."
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