"Let me start again. Abbot Tollin Bellsong, if it please you."
She returned the gesture. "Lyseira Rulano."
Recognition widened his eyes. "The Grey Girl."
Lyseira sighed and nodded. "I don't go by that title, but . . . yes, they do call me that." She kept her eyes on him and waited for the glare, the lecture of condemnation. She caught herself almost eager for it. It would be the first time someone would try to cut her down to size since she had severed her ties with the old Church. She owed them nothing and their words no longer held any power over her; the thought of throwing such an attack back in the man's face tantalized her.
It didn't come. Instead, he carried on as if her title made no difference at all.
"Lyseira, we are starving. Tal'aden's sent us no supplies since the winter came and the crops died. Some of our weakest—the eldest, mostly, but the infirm too—haven't made it."
The infirm, Lyseira thought. Were they infirm by choice? Or because they didn't have enough money to pay you for healing?
Tollin went on. "We've no choice but to accept your help, and thank you for it. No doubt the Fatherlord would prefer I try to convince the people to reject your aid, or maybe to kill you and take it anyway, but they would never be persuaded of either strategy. They love you. They're glad you came, and so am I."
Seth stiffened at Tollin's casual mention of murder.
"Well, good." That seemed easy enough. "We're happy to distribute all we have. Assuming Shimmerfall sees a break in the weather, it should be enough to keep everyone fed. And if not, we are growing more in Keswick every day—we'll return, if necessary." A thought struck her. "We've brought a cure for the blood fever, as well, if you have sick here."
Tollin gaped. "You've found a cure for the blood fever?"
"Not me, but others in Keswick. And it's easy. The affliction is real, but it's . . . caused by the mind. Mastering a simple verbal exercise cures it."
"That's all?"
"I was suspicious too, but I've seen it work. We have people with us who have been cured—you can ask them." They have a predilection for becoming chanters. She kept that part to herself.
"I can't believe it. I didn't know it was happening in Keswick, too. I thought it was just here." A darkness came into his eyes, a hint of his secret fears. "I . . . I thought it was some kind of curse. On me, for my failures. Akir punishing my flock for my sins."
Lyseira felt her lips tightening in denial as Tollin spoke. For the first time, she felt a glimmer of compassion for the man. "No. Akir doesn't work that way. He loves us. The blood fever is actually Stormsign. That's why miracles don't cure it."
He shook his head in wonder. "You've brought us salvation. Without you, we . . ." The words were too bitter; he bit them off. "I thank you. On behalf of all of Colmon, I thank you."
Her smile was genuine. "I'm just glad we made it in time." She squeezed his shoulder. "Now, if it's all right with you, we'll get back to it."
"Of course. Thank you. But . . ." He broke eye contact, glanced at the wall. "I must ask . . . that you hide your blasphemy."
Her smile curdled. The camaraderie she'd felt a second ago withered on the vine. "Blasphemy?" Lyseira held up her holy symbol. "You mean this?"
"Colmon is a God-fearing town. We don't―"
"This is a reminder of where the grain comes from. Of who suffered to bring it here. We don't demand gold for it—it's a gift. But we do expect everyone will know its source."
"Of course, of course," Tollin said. "I just . . ." He darted a glance past her, as if confirming that the door was closed, and then lowered his voice all the same. "If I allow you to feed Colmon openly displaying that symbol, freely announcing that it came from the false king―"
"Isaic is the true king," Lyseira said icily, "and the grain alone is proof that the Kesprey serve Akir's will. And whether you believe those things or not, we are the ones delivering the grain. I will only be speaking the truth."
The last words had scarcely passed her lips when she realized her mistake. The truth, she thought. As if that has ever mattered to these people. She knew better.
He spread his hands, a plea stealing into his voice. Finally, she heard his real concern.
"They'll kill me."
They'll be too grateful for the food to kill you, she thought—but the fear in his eyes made him realize he wasn't talking about the townspeople.
"As soon as the snows melt, as soon as they come this way, they'll hear of it. They may even hear sooner—they have ways, and I'm not sure I can trust everyone in my temple. They've all been sick with worry for the spring. For the war that must be coming. If they can throw me to the wolves to save their own necks they'll do it."
The Church would kill him if he allowed her to do as she asked. Of course they would.
Her first thought was, So be it.
You are an abbot in a corrupt Church. I've seen firsthand the types of horrors you must have witnessed or even administered. If your death is the price for us to save Colmon's people and avert this war, I'll gladly pay it. It was a repudiation born of her hours in Marcus's torture chamber, of the countless screaming deaths in Red Quarter. It burned for release on her tongue.
And it shamed her.
Would you be so callous toward Abbot Forthin? she accused herself. Toward Elthur? Takra?
In the months since the riot in Keswick, if she had learned anything, it was that people could change. Not everyone in the old Church had supported its wickedness. When the moment of truth had come, many had answered Akir's call.
Perhaps Tollin would as well.
"I didn't come here to get you killed," she said. "The opposite, in fact." She undid the clasp on her holy symbol's chain and held the amulet out to him. "You said Tal'aden abandoned you here. We haven't, and we won't.
"You don't have to wear this. But you're welcome to. You can set the past aside and join us. We'll accept you and anyone else who wishes to do the same. My hope is that it won't come to war—that enough people will be moved by Akir's goodness that the Church will ultimately find war impossible. But if I'm wrong about that, we'll be here too. The King can station troops here to protect you, once the weather permits. If this is a Kespran temple, he'll be glad to."
She didn't state the inverse argument: that if Colmon remained allied with Tal'aden, Isaic would instead send troops to conquer it. The town was the last major intersection along the road to Keswick from Tal'aden. Lyseira was no general, but she knew there was no way Isaic would leave such a potential threat sitting right in his backyard.
Tollin took the amulet from her hands and stared at it for a heartbeat. Then he set it on the table. "Those are kind words," he said, "but how can we trust them? We heard what happened in Keswick—everyone did. All the priests murdered or run out the city, and you expect us to believe―"
"Not all. A great number of them were in Tal'aden, where they were murdered in the Fatherlord's Convocation. Surely you heard about that, as well? And more still—Mother Angelica, Father Micah—were killed just weeks before I arrived, by the Tribunal. And"—she barked a laugh—"you yourself, just a second ago, admitted that your own Church will kill you. So first of all, if you're worried about that, it seems like the Fatherlord is the one you ought to be afraid of, not me.
"Second of all, I didn't take part in that riot. The people of Keswick did. It wasn't my Kesprey that killed the priests—there were no Kesprey other than me. It was regular people, the same as the people here, who were sick of being tortured and kidnapped and killed.
"And third—and listen close, now—a lot of priests turned against the Fatherlord during that riot. Some of them died doing it. Others, like my friend Takra, who came with us, or Brother Elthur, survived. And I welcomed them. The Kesprey aren't just people who used to have to hide their miracleworking. They are also people from the Fatherlord's church, who have opened their eyes."
She snorted. "Not that long ago, I wanted to be an initiate. I'm not about to murder yours."
"Elthur Herringson?" Tollin said. "He . . . joined you?"
Joined me? Lyseira fought the urge to scoff. He's probably most of the reason the temple is still standing. "Yes. You know him?"
"Yes, very well. I'd heard he was in line to become a bishop when his term at Majesta was done. He taught at seminary, when I was an initiate." He let out a shaky breath. "I . . . assumed he was dead. The stories . . ." He shook his head.
Lyseira spread her hands: You see? "I didn't come here to convert anyone, Tollin, and I won't force anyone to do anything. But when Akir's will is this clear, I've found that good people who are honest with themselves make the right decision regardless."
The man had gone ashen. He sagged as if the weight of his abbot's chain had suddenly become too heavy to bear. "I wish I could speak with Father Elthur," he said. "Did he come with you, by chance?"
"He's no longer a 'father'—in the Kespran Church all are equal." She had taken this idea from Matthew, who had refused the title Father whenever it was used, going by Brother instead. "And no, he's not with us. But Takra is. She was an initiate to Bishop Shephatiah at Majesta. You could speak with her, if you wished."
"An initiate?" A hint of contempt.
Lyseira arched a brow. "You've spoken with me, and I wasn't even that. Again—the old titles mean nothing to us. That attitude won't serve you."
Tollin sighed. "So you said. It'll take some getting used to." He waved away her suggestion. "It's a'fin. I don't need to talk with her. But you'll give me some time to pray on it?"
"Pray as long as you like. So long as you don't interfere with our charity, we'll bring a good word back to the King on your behalf.
"Whether we tell him you're a neutral party or an ally is up to you."
ii. Takra
"I don't know how long we're going to be here," Syn said when they met the following morning outside the inn, "so I'd like to get this part out of the way." She had the fifth wardbook with her, the one she'd gotten on Thakhan Dar. "We may not be up this way again for some time, so we need to do this while we can."
"The triangulation," Takra said. "Right. I agree."
They shared a horse and rode to the northeast edge of town, leaving the day's grain distribution to Lyseira and her followers. The houses were nearly abandoned in this part of Colmon; everyone had gone deeper into town to get their share of Kespran grain. It was eerie and quiet, an empty stage someone had forgotten to pull the curtain over.
The cobblestones gave way to dirt in the town's northeast corner, the houses tapering off in quality and number as they approached a modest ridge that spilled down into the open plain. Through the brilliant snow glare, she could just make out the farm houses that dotted the land beyond. "This ought to do it," Syn said, climbing down. Takra tethered the horse as Syn gained some distance—chanting didn't always spook horses, but it was best to take every precaution. Syn faced the sprawling ridge, her eyes fixed on the horizon, and chanted. A decrepit statue appeared behind her.
"Southwest," Takra breathed as Syntal turned around, eyes widening. "It's between here and Keswick!"
Syn laughed. "I never thought . . ." She looked past the illusion, stretching one arm to point straight away along the path it indicated, then let the statue vanish. "I would've sworn it was going to be in Ordlan Green. I should have been casting the whole way north," she said as she hurried back to their mount. "We must have passed it on the way! It could have been anywhere!"
"How often did you cast on Thakhan Dar?" Takra untethered their horse and they mounted up, heading back into town.
"Oh, once a day. I became convinced pretty early that the book was at the peak, one way or another—I just had to double check each day. But this one must be somewhere less prominent, if we managed to ride right past it."
She pushed their mount to a gallop, looking to get to the south end of town as fast as possible. They passed by one of the grain sleighs, finally down to its last dozen barrels, and gave a wide berth to the crowd still gathered there. When they reached the road they'd come in by the day before, she dismounted and cast again.
Again, the statue appeared behind her.
"It's in town," Takra said. A spark of excitement flickered to life in her chest. We're close. We're really, really close. They were going to find it. The sixth wardbook. And she was going to be there to see it.
A giddy smile broke across her face, unbidden. At the same time, the excitement in Syntal's eyes steadied and hardened, turning to somber purpose.
"Back in," Syntal said, mounting once more. She urged their horse to a brisk trot. The road didn't directly follow the path indicated by her spell, so she cleaved as close as she could—left on one street, right on the next. When the web of intersections grew too tangled to follow, she paused to recast the illusion and reorient by it.
"What do you think we're looking for? The statue?"
"Maybe," Syn allowed. "Or maybe that statue's been gone for millennia. We may just be relying on the triangulation itself. It could be anything—an overgrown cave, a basement. There might be a house there now. Lar'atul lived thousands of years ago, and most of his clues have been . . . cryptic." She halted, eying a snow-covered field that lay directly in their path. Their animal didn't want to set foot in it; the snow came halfway to its knees. "What do you think?" When Syn glanced back, her eyes had become a thrill of sparkling jade. "Force the horse through? Or go around and recast, just to be sure? The field might not have anything to do with it—but I'm not sure how many more times I can chant this illusion today."
"Then let me learn it," Takra said.
Syn watched her, her reluctance to teach the girl too much warring with her naked longing to find the next wardbook. "Not yet. If I need to."
Takra shrugged as if she didn't care, turned her eyes to the field—and saw a cluster of lumps in the snow. "Look."
Syn followed her finger, shielding her eyes from the dazzle of the sun against the snow field. "Could be nothing," she said—then licked her lips and forced their mount forward.
It was slow going, and treacherous, but they got lucky. The animal never stumbled into an invisible cleft, never turned an ankle. As they drew close, Takra jumped down—plunging knee-deep into the snow—and began slogging toward the closest lump. Syn came just behind her.
"I'm gonna recast," Syn said, bringing her hands up.
"Wait." Takra pulled her heavy sleeve over her gloved hand, and brushed the snow from the closest bulge. After a few passes, she caught a glimpse of dull, pockmarked stone. "This might be it," she said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. Syntal joined her, brushing off the snow on the other side.
"A statue," she said as the snow fell away. There was still too much to make out any details, but she was right: it was definitely a sculpture of some kind. Her eyes darted over its contours, then ranged outward, to the other lumps in the field. "Mount up," she said. "We need to clear this snow."
They returned to the road and tethered the animal to a post. Then Syntal turned to the field and chanted: "Kor-val baelfar." She shot her left fist upward before splaying her fingers wide, and an answering fire belched from the field, writhing with steam. The horse whickered and reared.
"Kor-val baelfar," Syn chanted again, and a second Detonation thundered skyward, a second cloud of swirling mist. When she finished the third, and the cloud of vapor finally sizzled away, Takra saw a broad path now led from the road to the cluster of statues in the field.
It was so easy, she marveled at Syntal's back as the girl hurried toward the field. A task that would have taken two dozen workers half a day, and she finished it in three chants. Takra recognized the spell: it was Detonation, from the third wardbook. The third, and they drew near to the sixth.
She left the horse quivering behind her, and chased Syntal into the field. Much of the snow had sprayed off to the sides, hurled away by Syn's magic—what remained had become a filthy slush, far easier to walk through than the snow had been. Although it still
dragged at the heels and seeped between the seams of her boots, they reached the cluster of statues fast.
"There." Syntal pointed at one of the sculptures: a kneeling man, missing one arm. It had fallen on its side, was half-buried in the sodden earth, but there was no mistaking the illusion they'd been chasing all morning. Syn sat down in the slush and started pulling the fifth wardbook from her pack. "Now we just have to figure out what chant―"
"Master Syntal," Takra said, and the girl glanced up. "You're—be careful." She tapped her cheek, prompting Syn to touch her own face and find the blood now leaking from her eyes.
Syntal scowled. "Sehk. I was hoping . . . damn it." She regarded the book in her lap, her vibrant eyes chewing through the options, then shook her head. "It'll be a number of chants, yet. Last time I had to cast four of them. If I'm already bleeding there's no way . . ." She sighed and shook her head again, then started pushing the great book back into its pack.
"Let's find Angbar," she finally said, "and let him know. We'll have to come back tomorrow."
iii. Lyseira
They spent the day in the streets, parceling out the means of survival to the townspeople. Each face blended into the next, an unending mosaic of need—but now and then, someone would ask for more. "I want to help," they'd say, or, "What can I do?" These she asked to join her in the evening at the inn, where she'd stayed the night before. Most of them, she was sure, would realize the same risk Tollin had, and quietly vanish. She expected to find maybe a dozen who kept their courage and their word.
She was wrong. They filled the street in front of the inn, overflowing the yard and surging up against the stable. More than a hundred of them. As they caught sight of Lyseira approaching through the dusk, they sent up a thunderous cheer.
Seth tightened his grip on the reins, a mild alarm stealing into his eyes, but Angbar gave her an unabashed grin. Looks like we have some new Kesprey, he said, but she could barely make out his words under the torrent of applause.
Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3) Page 25