Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3)

by Adam J Nicolai

"Nonsense!" Lyseira said, though in truth she had missed the girl's eye for numbers and logistics. "You've got your own important work to do. I hear you're pretty good at it."

  "Syntal says I'm a natural."

  "She is," Syntal put in. "I've never seen anything like it. She could understand the fourth wardbook chants the first time she saw them. I'm bringing her along so I can show her some of the newer chants, even from the fifth book. It's so busy at the school, with the King coming by and all, that there hasn't been much time."

  "And we think the sixth wardbook might be in Colmon," Takra said.

  "It's not in Colmon," Syn said at once. "But going there is our first opportunity to narrow the search."

  "Oh! You're coming with? That's wonderful!" Lyseira gestured at her sleigh. "There's still plenty of room. We can catch up during the ride."

  "Actually"—Takra winced in apology—"I'd rather go on the supply wagon with Syntal. We have a lot to go over. Three days passes fast."

  "Oh." That stung a bit, but not enough to bring her down. Lyseira managed a flicker of a smile. "M'sai. Of course."

  She returned to her sleigh and settled in. "We're ready." Shaviid snapped the reins, and they were off.

  The journey started well. The hardpacked snow on the road northeast of the city made for easy sleighing. Her mind wandered down a familiar path, wondering at the will of Akir.

  She had sworn to stop looking for signs and portents, to give up trying to predict God's will based on the ways He moved in the world. It felt childish to her now. She had seen too many omens end in disaster to still trust that any kind of prediction was even possible. And yet . . .

  Winterwheat was like nothing she had ever seen before. It was the kind of miracle, visited on them directly by God, that only existed in scripture. It was impossible to keep herself from wondering at its meaning, at Akir's design for it. She had already decided it must be God's will that they share it. But the symmetry of His plan amazed her. With each new harvest, more believers became miracleworkers, in turn producing more manna. In that way, food begat food. Faith begat faith.

  Melakai had told the King that a gift of food may help ensure loyalty in the coming war with Tal'aden, but Lyseira was beginning to suspect Akir's plan went further than that. With enough food, enough goodwill, and enough faith, she now believed it was possible to prevent the war entirely.

  This, she was sure, was Akir's plan. The old Church would fall without any more bloodshed, as the people realized that only the Kesprey truly spoke for God. The proof of this claim would come not from some old book or old man, but from the Winterwheat field itself: as brazen and undeniable a source as there could be. When the families of Darnoth fed their children with Kespran wheat, when they began to convert as the people of Keswick had, the old Church's time would be limited. War would be unnecessary. The ancient foundation that had supported the Fatherlord—the respect and fear of the people—would rot beneath his feet, plunging him into exposure as a fraud and a traitor.

  The plan's beauty awed her. Even the six-month winter was likely a part of it—for the people could only truly appreciate Winterwheat when they were on the verge of starvation. It humbled her, reminded her that no matter how dark things seemed, Akir always had a plan.

  The worst, she was sure, was behind them.

  11

  i. Helix

  "I can't just do nothing, Ben."

  Helix felt the old man's hand squeeze his own, a buoy on the sea of thrashing prophecy. "I know. I know." A sigh. "And yet you might not have a choice. This winter has shut down the roads. I can't even get home, and that's a lot closer than Shientel."

  "I don't understand how they could even do this to him. I thought slavery was illegal."

  "It's a King's law," Ben said, "not a holy law. The Church allows it in certain circumstances—I've heard of it before. In exchange for declaring a sin vile enough to warrant a lifetime of censure, they're paid a portion of the sale."

  "They get a cut?" The news rocked him. "But that's . . . they can't do that! That would give them incentive to approve it!" They murdered Matthew, burned out my eyes, chased us out of our homes—and I'm shocked they're part of a slave trade? He felt like a fool for it, but the new depths of the Church's depravities never stopped surprising him.

  "No, wait," Harth said, speaking up for the first time since the girls had left. "That might actually be good for you."

  Helix was incredulous. "How?"

  "Well, it probably means they keep a record. It's got to be a lot of money—there's no way the Fatherlord wouldn't demand an accounting of it."

  "You're saying . . ." The implications sank in. "There might be a note somewhere about where my dad is. A ledger entry, or something like that."

  "There might be," Harth allowed. "But I have no idea where. Shientel, most likely—or Tal'aden."

  "But Keswick is the seat of the throne. Maybe there's some sort of master ledger here." He saw the skeptical looks Ben and Harth threw each other before they made them.

  Someone in the main classroom moaned in pain; another gave a shout of surprise. "Sehk. Listen, I have to get back to the class. The King sent Cort Rothshire here to keep an eye on us. When his shift is over I'll send him to you. M'sai? He knows the city better than I do. You can ask him."

  "In the meantime, you should head back to Majesta," Ben urged him. "You're not well enough to be wandering the streets yet."

  "I am well enough," Helix insisted. "I got here, didn't I?"

  "M'sai." Ben paused, thinking. "But you should go back anyway. Brother Elthur was in the old Church his whole life. He might have your answer."

  That was more persuasive. He shrugged his coat back on and got ready to return to the temple.

  "I'll send Cort to Majesta to find you, if he's got time," Harth said.

  "All right."

  "Are you sure you can make it back on your own?" Ben asked. "I could walk you back if you need."

  "I'm sure. Thanks." He said his goodbyes and pushed off into the current of visions, trying not to feel like he was a problem that had just been delayed.

  ii. Cort

  He arrived at Majesta a few hours after highsun, just after his shift at the chanter's school. It felt strange, striding through the halls of the temple like he owned the place. He rather liked it, actually, even if he was only there as a favor to Harth.

  Why he was willing to do a favor for Harth, he wasn't quite sure.

  The King liked him, and Kai liked him . . . but Cort's strongest impression of the man had come just before the riots, when Cort had gone into the sewers begging Harth and his witch friends to save Isaic. They'd refused, acting as if their spirits were completely broken—then, once the riots had started, gotten involved anyway. If they hadn't, the Prince would likely have been killed, the revolt quelled. So he was glad they'd come around, and liked to think he'd had something to do with it . . . he just wished they hadn't had to play with his head so much first.

  He shook his head, breaking free of the memory. It hardly mattered now; he was at Helix's door. Just as he lifted his hand to knock, Helix called, "Come in."

  Cort went in.

  Helix was only a few summers his junior, well-built but a little scrawny, his wild red hair a perfect match for the roaming gaze that seemed to pull his whole head with it. He was tying on his blindfold—Is it really a blindfold if he's already blind? Cort wondered—and already had a sword hanging at his waist. A nice one. Cort whistled.

  "That's a pretty rapier."

  "It was my dad's," Helix said. "He wanted me to have it."

  "Lucky. My dad never gave me anything half as nice." He waited as Helix finished getting ready to leave. "You look a lot better than when we first met," he said. "Or when we second met, for that matter."

  "We've met?"

  "We have. I was the one who got you out of Samson's. On orders, of course—Captain Thorn and the King."

  Helix stopped. "That was you?"

  "That was me."
<
br />   "Blesséd sehk. Thank you."

  "Most welcome. Just following orders, like I said."

  "Sure, but . . . we would've died down there. I don't know how to thank you."

  "Silver's always good."

  Helix froze. "I . . . I don't . . ."

  Cort clapped him on the shoulder. "It was a joke. I get paid just for wearing the pin."

  Helix nodded and pulled on his cloak. "A joke," he said. "Right. I remember those."

  Maybe make fewer jokes with the kid who just had his eyes burned out, Cort noted, feeling like a bit of an ass. He cleared his throat and went on. "So Harth tells me you need a guide. That would make me your man. Where are we headed?"

  "Basica Extivus," Helix said. "Father Elthur said it's in the north side of Temple, near the old public fountain."

  "Sure, I know it." Cort hesitated, not quite sure how to phrase his next question. "It's a ways, though. Do you need me to . . . ?"

  Helix understood. "No, I can make it on my own. I can . . . see, in a way. It's all right."

  You can see? Cort wondered, but decided not to press. He figured he'd understand soon enough.

  "So can you use that thing, or is it just for looks?" he asked as they cantered through the streets toward the temple. Cort led, with Helix's horse keeping pace.

  "This?" Helix patted the sword. "I can hold my own, I suppose." He thought on it, then recanted. "Well, not really. If I need to hit something, I tend to grab whatever's handy."

  "You carry a weapon like that, you're begging people to make you prove you can use it. That's what Kai says, anyway—it's been true in my experience."

  "I'm not trying to start anything. I just don't want to look like an easy mark. I want to make people think twice."

  "Might work on the timid ones," Cort allowed, "but those aren't the ones you've gotta worry about. And if you don't mind me saying so, there's a type who's gonna be awful eager to see a blind kid pull a sword loose. They're like jackals." He wasn't sure why he was saying all this. Sometimes his mouth ran away on him. "They'd find it hilarious to see you cut off your own nose."

  Helix glowered. "I told you, I can see. Sort of. Well enough, anyway." He cleared his throat. "Most of the time."

  And he could. Cort had just seen this supposedly blind young man maneuver through the crowded Majesta hallways, mount his horse, and follow him halfway through Temple district. "How does that work, exactly?" Cort asked in earnest. He lowered his voice. "Some kind of witchcraft? Something your cousin did?" He waved a hand. "I don't care, personally. I say the world's changing, anyone can see it, and I honor the amnesty. But I gotta admit—I'm curious as Hel."

  "It's not a chant," Helix threw back, somewhat defensively. "But I don't know what it is. Not exactly. I'm still getting used to it."

  "Stormsign," Cort declared.

  Helix shrugged. "Sure."

  "Fair enough. Well, if you can see, you can learn swordplay. I know a few folks who might be willing to teach you." He chuckled. "Those types I was talking about before—the jackals? I can just imagine the look on their faces. Coming after a blind kid—an easy mark—and he whips out his sword and starts laying in with it. They'd sehk themselves."

  Helix didn't see the humor. "Maybe."

  They fell into an uneasy silence. "Sorry," Cort said. "When I get going, sometimes I don't know when to shut up."

  "No. It's good. It helps me . . . focus. So I don't get lost." Helix waved his hand, like he was indicating something all around him. "It can be hard to hold on, sometimes."

  Huh. He wasn't sure what to make of that. "All right." Luckily, he was usually pretty good at making small talk. "So what's at Extivus?"

  "A ledger, hopefully, that'll tell me where my dad was sold into slavery."

  "Ah." Cort nodded, trying to hide his wince. You are not an easy one to talk to, you know that? He looked at his companion again, finally realizing how much he must have been through. "Yeah," he concluded. "We definitely have to teach you to use that sword."

  There were no dingy temples in Keswick, but Extivus was one of the least breathtaking. A fairly narrow stairway led to an entryway braced with grand pillars, but it lacked the looming statues and cacophony of precious metals of some of the other temples. Maybe it was that relative drabness that had kept the place from getting demolished during the riots. If it hadn't taken a lot of damage, that could only be good for Helix: hopefully it meant the books he was looking for would still be here, and in good condition.

  It hadn't escaped completely, though. The God's Star had still been torn down, Cort realized, noting the ruins of a sculpture at the entryway and the ashes of a number of tapestries that had once borne the sigil. The holy mark was nowhere to be seen.

  But unlike most of the other temples in town, the triangle-and-cross of the Kesprey hadn't been posted here yet. It was quiet, too. A mere dozen or so people—most of them clerics—milled about the main chapel, several darting into side rooms when he and Helix entered.

  "Hello?" Helix called. "Can you help me?"

  "We don't have any food here," one of the clerics answered. "Check at Alridaan or Quietus."

  No food, Cort mused. That explained why the place wasn't in total chaos like the rest of the temples.

  "I'm not here for food. I need to see the ledgers."

  The cleric approached them: severe and bald, with thin, icy lips. "Those aren't available to the public."

  Still wearing his deacon's chain, Cort noticed, but not a single Kesprey symbol in the place.

  He didn't like it.

  "Oh, come on now. Everything's open to the public," Cort said, mustering an easy grin. "I thought the riots made that pretty clear."

  "The ledgers survived that debacle through the grace of God," the deacon said, "and I'll not endanger that for some―"

  Cort coughed and shifted his cloak, revealing his Crownwarden's pin. The deacon shut up, his eyes glued to it. In the back of the room, someone whispered something urgent and unintelligible to his partner before hurrying out of the room.

  "Why don't you show my friend the ledgers," Cort said.

  "Anything for the King," the deacon answered, and led them to a side room, where several tall cases housed massive books behind heavy glass. "The books are organized by time frame and geography. We keep copies of every ledger in the kingdom. What are you looking for, exactly?"

  Helix answered. "Uh—something from the Shientel Valley, most likely."

  "Basica Shientel, or one of the lesser temples in Shientel? Porious? Angsenaar?" He indicated one of the shelves. "We have records here dating back twenty years for every temple in the valley. If you want something older, we can find it downstairs."

  "No, no—this would be recent. The last year, probably. And I don't know where exactly . . . Tenuor, maybe. It probably happened in Keldale."

  "What happened?"

  Helix glared. "You sold my dad into slavery."

  The deacon drew up. "The Church doesn't―"

  "Don't," Helix snapped. "Don't even start. And you're not part of the Church anymore—if you were, Lyseira wouldn't let you be here. So don't defend them, and don't hide anything for them. It was part of the Church's cut for my father's sale. So where would it be?"

  The deacon hushed and turned his attention to the books, peering along the spines.

  A gentle commotion came from the chapel behind Cort—a handful of cloaked figures, hurrying out the front door. Cort glanced at the deacon, still looking for the ledger, and at the rest of the chapel, now mostly empty.

  "Helix," he said. "I'll be right back." Helix nodded.

  Cort jogged to the chapel's front door, his leathers creaking, and darted outside. He caught the eye of one of the men from the chapel just before he disappeared into an alley, and his heart surged with recognition.

  Bitch's tits, he thought. That's not good.

  "He says they don't have it," Helix told him as he came back. "Some bishop checked it out—Angela?"

  "Mother Angelic
a," the deacon said. "At the royal palace."

  "Forget it." Cort took Helix's arm. "I have to get to Kai right away.

  "I think the King's in danger."

  iii. Melakai

  He'd gathered the off-duty Crownwardens into the palace courtyard for their regular debriefing and assignments. The city had started to quiet down since Winterwheat—a well-fed populace was a behaved populace—but there was still a mob outside the King's chanter school on any given day, and there were still more lootings and muggings than usual. Most of these problems fell to Patyr Davit, the new captain of the Blackboots, but the Crownwardens needed to be aware of the situation in the city, too.

  Still, on balance it was more good news than bad; a relief after the weeks of near-starvation. As he finished, he glanced at the table where he'd set Lar'atul's sword, feeling like a fool for what he was about to ask but failing to see any other way.

  "Dismissed," Kai concluded, "but take a walk past the table on your way out. I'd like each of you to pick up the weapon there, hold it for a second, and set it back down."

  They were good men; no one spoke a word of complaint or asked a question. But he could see the skepticism in their eyes, and it forced his tongue to move. "I know it's strange. We live in strange times. Please just humor me."

  They filed past one by one. Each picked up the weapon and set it down. It didn't glow for any of them like it always did for him.

  Kai hid his glower behind a gruff nod. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but at least one of his predictions had come true: he looked like an even bigger idiot than usual.

  "Captain Thorn!" Cort burst into the courtyard, red-faced and winded, as the last few lingering Crownwardens turned in surprise.

  "Loyalman." A notion to berate the younger man for missing the debrief flickered through his thoughts and disappeared. "What's wrong?"

  "I was just at Extivus. There's something going on there. They don't have the Kespran symbol up, they're not giving out food, and I saw―" He caught his breath, steadied himself. "I saw Trius."