Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3)

by Adam J Nicolai

  D'haan had taken his normal position, sitting in the guise of Deacon Breer in the chair nearest the tea table, but today he was not alone. A middle-aged man—greying but sturdy, two days' salt-and-pepper stubble gracing the hard line of his jaw—stood across from him. He could have been a farmer, dressed in simple breeches and a loose tunic, but for the striking, night-black cloak that shrouded most of him from the shoulders down.

  Caleph felt a familiar thrill of fear run down Baltazar's spine. "Faerloss," Baltazar said.

  "Close the door," the farmer responded. As one of Caleph's Preservers obliged him, he continued, "D'haan tells me the Foundation Altar is gone."

  Caleph's eyes flicked to D'haan, and Caleph knew at once what Baltazar must be thinking: Did he change his mind? Does he want to trick Faerloss into believing the altar's missing? In their first encounter, Baltazar had tried to convince D'haan that such a scheme could work, and D'haan had responded by threatening the man's life. But for all the fear Caleph sensed Baltazar had for the two men in the room right now, the woman they wanted him to resurrect—the Queen of Dawn, they called her—turned his heart to ice.

  "That . . ." Baltazar sought out D'haan's eyes. The other man met his gaze evenly, revealing nothing. "Yes, that's right."

  "It was here before the Sealing, was it not?"

  "My memory hasn't fully returned. I'm not sure―"

  "You told us it was. The plan was based on it. You didn't lie, did you?"

  "Of course not, I―"

  "Then it was here. Now it's gone. A slab of marble, heavier than fifty men, and it simply happened to vanish conveniently after the Queen and all Her supporters were destroyed in the Sealing. While you were still here, living out the rest of your—what? Thirty, forty years of life?—it simply vanished."

  "I assume it was here during that time, but I don't remember, Faerloss. I was suppressed. I barely had more presence in the world than you did. Caleph, tell him."

  And suddenly, the shroud between Caleph and the world lifted away. The sun blared through the eastern window; his robes rustled against his shoulders; his fingers and toes and tongue were all his to command.

  It felt like stumbling over a cliff's edge; watching the ground race toward him as his mind screamed. Before he smashed into it, he seized his moment. "Get Dale Genneth," he said, grabbing E'tal by the robe. "Tell him―"

  Baltazar seized him like a puppy by the scruff, yanking him back and hurling him away. The shroud slammed down like a portcullis. "I'm sorry. That . . . that was unwise."

  "You don't have control of your vessel?" Faerloss demanded.

  "I do. Absolute control."

  "And the guardians?" Faerloss snapped a nod at the Preservers.

  Baltazar switched to the High Tongue, so the guardians would understand him. "Surrendering his will to mine is the great privilege of every Fatherlord. They understand that. Don't you, E'tal? Ortoz?" Baltazar fixed his eyes on Caleph's Preservers. They nodded. Caleph felt his instant of hope flicker and die.

  "Your vessel seems well aware of his surroundings," Faerloss pressed. "Why were you unaware of yours?"

  "We're in the process of exchanging control. As they break, Lars's Seals empower the Queen's spell piece by piece. This most recent one—the fifth—had a particularly strong effect. It woke you. It gave me complete control."

  The fifth. Caleph still railed at the walls of his cage, hating himself for not taking better advantage of the surprise opportunity he'd received, but the words penetrated his despair. There was a revelation inside them, a critical piece of this puzzle, if he could only wrap his mind around it.

  Faerloss glowered. "So at the beginning―"

  "I had only the faintest sense of my surroundings. For millennia, I could influence things like . . . like a man in a dream. The vessels held some imprint of my personality and desires, but beyond that―"

  "No!" Faerloss snapped. Baltazar snapped his mouth shut. "You think me a fool? You were still alive, Baltazar, for decades at least, after the Sealing. Before you had to take your first vessel. That's when you had the altar moved."

  "I . . ." Again Caleph felt every beat of Baltazar's heart, his wild, squirming anxiety. "D'haan, tell him . . ."

  D'haan answered, "You're doing a fine job telling him yourself."

  He's toying with him, Caleph realized. He never had any intention of going along with the deception.

  "If the plan fails," Faerloss growled, "because of your betrayal―"

  "It won't!" Baltazar cried, finally coming clean. "I found the Altar. This week. It was hidden in a . . . I found it. We have it. The plan will proceed."

  Faerloss glared. "If you're toying with me . . ."

  "No," Baltazar whimpered. "No, I know better."

  "And the Allgem?"

  "That truly is missing. Still. As I started gaining more influence with my vessel I began sending search parties out to look for it. I've focused my efforts on Borkalis—I recall Ethaniel saying it was in Trinity Mirror. But the trail is thousands of years old."

  "No matter," Faerloss said. "The Altar will suffice for the Queen. Though the gem may be useful in destroying this upstart church I've heard about."

  Baltazar scoffed. "Isaic's pet church? They're nothing."

  "They call themselves Kesprey," Faerloss said. "Did you know that?" Baltazar gave a tight nod of concession as he went on. "Laughable, I would say, except they're on every tongue from here to Thakhan Dar. Even this vessel"—he pointed at himself—"was whispering about them with his family before I took him. His words weren't the first I heard, nor the last. Your little empire is on the verge of collapse, Baltazar, and you don't even see it."

  Baltazar scoffed again. "You think too much of them. It's a dozen rebels led by a little girl. As soon as this winter lifts we'll put them down. Easily. We already have a force, put into place before the winter fell, ready to reinforce Colmon and provide a staging ground for a siege."

  "You had better be right. The Kesprey were supposed to end after the Sealing. That was the promise you made Her."

  "They did end. The Rulano girl—she's just using their name. She has no idea what it means."

  "And yet the name has power. She learned it somewhere; she uses it for a reason. I don't take any group calling themselves Kesprey lightly, and neither should you. This weed needs to be pulled before it spreads."

  "Oh, I mean to," Baltazar said. Caleph felt the extent of his malice, the truth of his words. "Colmon is only the first step. Here in Tal'aden I have an army ready. A thousand clerics. The moment Colmon falls, they march."

  "Is that so? They've been ready for months? They're not hungry? Cold? None of them have heard the stories of this girl's church and wondered?" Faerloss glowered. "Keep your empty promises, Baltazar. I'm not new to war. If you had the Queen's troops, maybe . . . but you don't.

  "Put your house in order. Your army's not ready, and they need to be." He paused. "But the Queen comes first. You have the Altar—now we need Her. I was . . . detained well before the final events of the war. I missed them. Where was She last?"

  From behind Faerloss, D'haan spoke. "She would've been in Gloryhold, on Her way to Trinity, but She was coming from overseas. I've had a little time to research this while we waited for you, Faerloss. There's an island south of Ordlan Green"—he caught himself, corrected the words with a twinge of an admiring smile—"south of the Waste, in the Tairen Sea. Said to be the ruins of an old tower. Legends of an ancient witch, though no one knows anything of substance. It has to be Gloryhold. After all this time it's likely been looted, but it would be a good place to start the search."

  "Good." Faerloss nodded and turned back to Baltazar. "You've anything to add?"

  Baltazar's sick dread roiled in his stomach, but he kept Caleph's face neutral as he shook his head. "That sounds accurate. That's the direction Ethaniel expected Her to come from."

  "Very well. We can't yet take the shadows, so we'll need to travel by boat. Arrange it."

  "What of V
hesus?" D'haan asked. "He's distant. The Queen left him on Fel'shanna. We were all to meet at Trinity Hold for the final assault, but without the shadows, it could take him months to get here—and that's assuming he can even find passage from Fel'shanna. That place was barely civilized to begin with."

  "Vhesus will take care of himself," Faerloss said. "He knows where we are. He'll have to catch up when he can." He turned back to Baltazar. "The ship. Arrange it.

  "And for Queen's sake, Baltazar, feed your army."

  14

  i. Lyseira

  Without sorcery, what should have been a three-day journey to Colmon could have taken weeks, if it ever even finished at all. The twin perils of the standing and falling snow endangered them multiple times a day, threatening to grind the entire trip to a halt. But Hover alone sufficed to overcome most of these obstacles, and they had three chanters with them able to cast it.

  The morning of their fifth day dawned cold and clear, revealing the smoke spirals in the distance that yesterday's snowfall had hidden. Nearly there, Lyseira warned herself. It was time to get her whirling thoughts under control, to force them into some semblance of order. The King had warned her: the residents of Colmon may not be friendly. They may attack, even if the gift of food could save their lives, or they may welcome the caravan with open arms. It all depended on how many clerics had reached the town after last year's Convocation and just how hungry the townsfolk actually were.

  Some signs became clear as the sun drew higher. Abandoned wagons, drowned by cresting snowbanks. Grave markers in the snow, both on and off the road. It had to be bad in Colmon, if so many would rather freeze to death trying to escape than stay and wait their fate.

  They reached town that afternoon, without fanfare. Colmon had neither walls nor guards—apparently its people didn't consider it important to ward against threats from the outside, when the threat of starvation already prowled its streets.

  Shaviid slowed the lead sleigh, his eyes shooting a question at her. We could disembark and head in on foot, she thought. It might be less intimidating. But when we find someone, I'd like to be able to show them what we brought.

  She pointed ahead, to a small house just down the road. "There. That one with the chimney smoke. We'll start there."

  When they reached the building Lyseira jumped down, Seth and Angbar just behind her. Seth offered to knock first, in case the inhabitants recognized her and decided to get violent, but Lyseira refused. She made her way up the path—snow-choked, devoid of footprints—and knocked on the door.

  In time, a man answered. She had seen starvation in Tal'aden and Keswick; she knew what it looked like, and now she saw it etched in every line of this man's body. She'd had a line rehearsed and prepared, introducing herself and her new church and explaining that she came at King Isaic's behest, to capture as much goodwill as she could. But as soon as she saw this man's face, all pretense vanished. She said the only thing that mattered, because to do anything else would be a sin:

  "We brought food."

  The man's eyes widened, then narrowed. "You what?" he croaked. "Is this a dream?"

  "No." She pointed at the sleighs behind her. "Grain, from Keswick. And flour. We'll bring it inside—just tell us where to put it." She nodded at Seth and Angbar, who hurried back to the lead sleigh.

  "This is real," the man breathed.

  "It's real. I swear it."

  "We thought . . . just now, before you came, we . . ."

  She heard the horrors yawning beneath the words, too dark to contemplate. "No," Lyseira said, shushing him. "No, no—there's plenty for everyone. That's all over."

  "Oh, God bless you." The man stumbled forward, pulled her into a hug. "Oh, bless you, girl."

  "No, Akir bless you," she said, fighting the tears from her eyes. "He heard your prayers and sent us."

  "Who are you?" he said as he pulled away. "Did the prince―?" He hesitated, panic coming into his eyes as he realized using the wrong title could mean his death. It was yet another glimpse into the Church's brutality, the countless ways they subjugated everyone.

  Lyseira took his hands. "Lyseira," she said. "My name is Lyseira. And you?"

  "Tom," he said. "Tom Carpenter." Then he called over his shoulder, "Jalen! Children! It's food! Food from Keswick!"

  His family descended from the loft, a woman and two little ones—a boy and a girl.

  "They've brought food," Tom said again, and started weeping.

  They went house to house that way, up one street and down another, before Takra had the idea to stop in the middle of an intersection and call the needy to them. People had become aware of them by then anyway, as neighbors opened their doors and peered out through the cold to see what was happening. So Lyseira took her former Kesprey's advice, and it sped up the process considerably. In minutes people from the surrounding houses thronged around the sleighs, carrying pots and bowls from home to bear their share of the grain.

  "There is plenty!" Lyseira called. "King Isaic knows Colmon well, he told us how much to bring to ensure enough for everyone!" Better to use his name late than never, she thought, hoping the people heard her and took the words to heart. Don't go to war with us, she wanted to add. We feed you. But this seemed a little on the nose.

  "Akir cares for you!" Angbar shouted from the next sleigh over. "This is His proof—it grew in the dead of winter, from a fallow field! Faith grew this wheat!" Funny, to hear Angbar preaching from a sleigh top while she put out the good word for the king. It made her smile.

  Then she saw a cleric join the intersection on horseback, his Preserver at his side, and the smile died.

  She couldn't make out his whole face beneath his heavy hood—just the scowl of his lips. She prayed as quickly as she could for protection from flames, asking Akir to shield her, the sleigh, and everyone on it—but she lacked the strength to protect the whole crowd, or even all the grain.

  "What is this?" the cleric called as she felt the miracle of His protection settle in around her shoulders. "Supplies from Tal'aden?"

  "From Keswick," she called back, understanding that he knew full well where the grain had come from—she'd been shouting it for the last half hour. In for a heel, in for a crown. She drew a deep breath and added, "From the Kespran Church, Akir's true chosen, with the blessing of King Isaic."

  King Isaic. Not King Jan. The words hung in the air, only slightly less blasphemous than the ones that had come before them: the Kespran Church.

  Seth tensed next to her. On the second wagon, Syntal and Takra waited with similar apprehension. The populace, too hungry to miss this opportunity no matter what the Church said, continued collecting the grain—more fervently, if anything, since the cleric's arrival.

  "Is there enough," the cleric finally said, his voice quavering, "for my initiates and myself at the temple?"

  Lyseira nearly sagged with relief. Again, tears tugged at her eyes. Thank you, Father. I will never doubt you again. She forced herself to smile, made sure her voice would project her answer.

  "There is enough for all."

  They split up. Syntal, Takra, and Angbar headed farther into town to distribute more wheat, while Lyseira, Seth, and Shaviid followed the cleric back to his temple.

  In the months since she'd first left home, Lyseira had visited a host of sprawling cities. She'd grown used to their majestic, towering temples. This one though, while still easily twice the size of the one she'd known growing up, was a reminder of home. Compared to Tenuor or Majesta it was modest and small, with a hint of disrepair. It did more to endear its Keeper to her than even his acceptance of the grain had.

  They followed the cleric up the walkway, shoveled clear of snow, and into the vestibule. "I apologize for the state of the temple," the cleric said as he took off his cloak and hung it on a hook, exposing his abbot's chain. He was young for an abbot—of an age with King Isaic, with somber brown eyes and a matching, tousled crown of hair. Tall but slight, like a walking exclamation point. "I sent some of my initiat
es out to E'lay, in hopes things were better there, and since they've left the temple's upkeep has―"

  "I don't care about that," Lyseira said. "I'm not your Church superior. I'm here to feed the town. Can you help me do that?"

  Her directness took him aback. "I—well, yes, I . . . don't mean to stand in your way."

  "But you could." She tossed her cloak behind her shoulders, revealing her own holy symbol. Elthur had given it to her upon her return: a triangle with its points capped, housing a cross. The sign of the Kesprey.

  At the time she'd considered it an ostentatious indulgence. She'd thrown it in a drawer and refused to wear it; had nearly considered banning its use entirely. But he'd mentioned it again before she left, and as they'd followed the cleric back to his temple, she'd slipped it on. Now it came in helpful: a simple but forceful reminder that she was not one of them. The cleric's eyes widened when he saw it.

  "You would bring that blasphemy to a holy―"

  "This grain comes from Akir. Not from the Fatherlord's Church, not from the Kespran Church, not from any king. From Akir. The fact that He's chosen King Isaic and the Kesprey to deliver it speak to His will. And the people will know that."

  In the chapel, a number of initiates and other temple workers stood gawking. He spared them a glance and then beckoned to a side door. "Can we discuss this in my office?"

  Lyseira hesitated. Was it better to force his concessions here? She would hand out the grain no matter what, but refused to leave any opening for him to take the credit. People had to know where it came from.

  He saw her reticence and added, quietly, "I only wish to speak plainly."

  Lyseira had no experience with these kinds of exchanges, no idea what the right answer was. She shrugged. "Fine."

  He led her and Seth through the side door, his Preserver bringing up the rear. His study was bigger than Forthin's old one, thankfully, but the clutter of books and curling scrolls still made it feel cramped. As his Preserver closed the door the cleric covered his heart and inclined his head, a formal introduction.