"People died here!" Angbar shouted. "Doesn't that even bother you?"
She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. "'The betrayed,'" she breathed. "Of course." And she sat down among the bones, hauled the fifth wardbook from her pack as if taking a study break in the library.
Takra glanced back and forth between them, brows tight. "Syntal," she finally said, "maybe―"
"If Seth comes, stop him," Syn said. "He won't like this." And she began to chant.
The syllables came long and low, a kind of baritone drawl: an alien voice issuing from Syntal's throat. She set her hands in front of her a foot apart, facing one another, then started forcing them together in fits and starts, jerking, as though the air itself resisted her. A shadow came into her eyes, a minute darkening of the green irises.
Cold dread wormed down Angbar's back.
A wail echoed from above them, something that may have been more real than the pulse-shades' constant death screams. Then it came again, this time seeming to rise from the floor—and again, now all around him.
"Gor'sha vin kap'srennor," Syn rumbled, her hands shuddering as her fingertips drew closer. "Baeloth-vin san sen'srennor."
A natural consequence of a violent death, Iggy's mysterious stag had told them, describing the pulse-shades last summer in Ordlan Green. Not something created by the twisted will of some mad chanter. Implying that there was something else, something unnatural. What had the stag called it?
Necromancy.
Syn's fingertips were less than an inch apart, now. In the shivering space between them grew a nearly imperceptible darkness, a pinprick in reality that exposed a hint of the yawning blackness beyond.
One of the yellow bones at Syntal's feet twitched.
"Syn." Angbar shrank back, a bleak refusal stealing through him. "Stop. Don't."
More bones quivered. One of them scraped across the old stone to meet another. The wail surrounded him now, a blanket of suffocating shrieks.
Clattering and rasping, driven by Syntal's unrelenting command, the bones dragged themselves across the floor to form a pile at her feet. The chant culminated. Her fingers touched. The wail died with the finality of a slammed door.
In the sudden silence, she pronounced a last word: "Beszla."
The bones rose, jerkily unfurling into a human form. It hunched before her, wretched and crippled, as she caught her breath. Sweat slicked her forehead like an admission of guilt.
Then the thing turned away, lurching toward the wall—its footsteps like acorns on cobblestones; from its ankles and knees, an awful grinding. Periodically it sagged, driven toward the earth by the memory of its death, but always it jerked upward again, resumed its forward trudge as if driven by a whip.
Slavery and anguish unending. The angel Alía's words, from the vision they'd all shared after Syn had opened the fourth wardbook. There is a word for such suffering:
Hel.
"Syn," he begged. "Please. It's not worth it."
"It's the only way," she said. "I hate it as much as you do." She fell in behind the shambling bones, eyes darting for some sign of their destination.
"It's suffered enough," he said. "Just let it go. We'll find the book without it."
The thing's ponderous shuffle took it at last to the wall, where it knelt, feeling along the stone.
"Almost," Syn whispered. She knelt next to it, following its every motion. "It's close."
It grasped at a single non-descript brick, the blunt tips of its bony fingers scraping for purchase in the old mortar, which slowly started flaking to the floor.
"Sev siir rok, kor rok riis," Takra snapped. The bones clattered apart, collapsing in a heap. "Enough."
Syntal spared her a quick glare, then pulled a knife from her belt and began digging at the mortar. "You should have let it finish," she said.
"The wardbook's behind the brick. We don't need it to do the work."
"You don't know that. There may be another tunnel beyond this—a maze, maybe, that only it can lead us through. Then I'll have to chant that god-awful spell again. It was horrible enough the first time."
Takra didn't answer, but the set of her mouth implied she was unconvinced. She pulled a knife of her own, and set to helping pull the brick loose.
Syntal glowered, frustrated. "No. Step back." Takra did, and Syn gestured at the brick, snapping off a quick chant. With a crack like snapping wood, the brick crumbled, its guts spilling down the wall. Syn knelt again and scooped out the debris, reaching blindly into the empty space as soon as her arm would fit. She closed her eyes as she felt around, her face pinched with concentration—then she nodded, a cloud of relief stealing over her as she opened her eyes again. "Got it," she said, and slowly pulled out a giant book.
The others had been black or brown, even the color of redwood. This one was unflinchingly white, clouded only by the dust of the ruined brick. Like most of the others, it bore a clasp—this time a massive piece of steel that ran the full length of the normally-exposed pages opposite the spine, hiding them completely. A narrow gutter, just wide enough for Syn's fingers, created an opening into the mechanism. Syn reached in, then jerked her hand back.
"Sehk," she yelped. "It's sharp in there." She lifted the book, trying to peer inside. "Like razors."
"Ironflesh," Takra said at once, and Syntal nodded, her earlier anger at the girl apparently forgotten.
"Wait," Angbar said. "You're going to open it?"
Syntal threw him a disparaging look, but Takra caught his meaning. "We're not supposed to," she said. "Are we? I thought the King―"
"The King's not here," Syn muttered, and started chanting.
"Syn, wait." Angbar stepped forward.
"What about the tenets?" Takra pressed. "'Loyalty to the King?' Did you mean that, or not?"
Syn finished her chant, but paused, her lips tight. "You saw what I had to do to get this." She gestured around her. "What all of them had to go through. It needs to be opened."
"I thought you promised the King you wouldn't," Takra said. "I thought you promised Harth."
Syntal heaved a sigh and sank back against the wall. In the ensuing silence Angbar realized the rain of death from above them had slowed. Only the occasional spell flashed out now, and as he waited to see if Syntal would come to her senses, even that ended. The pulse-shades were gone, the bitter rendition of their own massacre finally completed.
"Fine," Syntal grunted. "M'sai. We'll leave it to the King." She stuffed the book into her pack along with the fifth wardbook; together, the pair of them stretched the sack's seams. Then she chanted a quick Hover and began rising away, just as Lyseira and Seth reached the tower's bottom floor, panting.
17
i. Helix
They'd brought him back to Majesta, or so he understood—raving and flailing, awash in rampant visions. When he finally managed to haul himself back to the here-and-now he'd found himself back in his room at the temple, no better off than when he'd first left. His father was still a slave, and he was still a lunatic.
Elthur had asked that he keep to his room for the afternoon. One of the Winterwheat expeditions had returned from a successful trip to Bitterfork, and the whole city was abuzz. The King himself was headed to the temple to congratulate them, and while Elthur didn't come right out and say it, Helix understood. He'd already made a fool of himself at the palace, rewarding Cort's kindness by bursting in on the King's lunch and spouting nonsense that had forced them to drag him away. He would've sworn he had a good reason for doing it at the time, but he couldn't remember. Right now, he was just happy he hadn't been killed for it.
A knock would come at the door, which surprised him: with the King in the temple, he'd expected everyone to give him a wide berth. The man outside would be grizzled and older, with a permanent scowl of skepticism and a Crownwarden's pin.
Sehk, Helix thought, and braced himself. Looks like they're not letting me off as easily as I'd hoped. "Come in," he called, just as the knock began.
The man would enter and extend his hand. "Helix Smith," he said. "It's good to meet you."
Handshakes were easier when Helix started them, so he did—extending his own hand and letting the other man take it. "Melakai Thorn," the man continued. "You can call me Kai."
Helix had heard the name. "You're friends with Cort," he said.
"He works for me," Melakai said, "but we've been known to play a hand of cards or two."
Helix nodded. "I'm glad you came by," he said. Kai's expression would grow quizzical. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior at the palace. Cort had a close eye on me the whole time—it wasn't his fault. I'm struggling with this"—he gestured at his head—"condition I have, and it still gets the best of me at times."
"You're apologizing?"
Helix hesitated. Kai's confusion would melt into concern. "Well, I—I mean, I burst in on the King's lunch."
"You don't remember what happened, do you?"
"After that? I know I was dragged out—they told me, but I don't . . ." Oh, God, Helix thought. What did I do? He licked his lips, his heart kicking into a nervous rumble. "Why? What happened?"
"You saved the King's life."
"I . . . what?"
"One of his Crownwardens tried to poison his food. You walked through the door and told him not to eat it."
"I did?" Now that he thought on it, he did remember a vision like that—but he'd thought it was just another piece of the churn. "That actually happened?"
Kai barked a laugh. "It happened all right. Hel, I came here to thank you for doing my job for me—I was busy getting stabbed on the other side of the river. You really don't remember?"
"I . . . I think I might, now that you mention it."
Kai laughed again. He would step back into the hallway, nod and beckon. "Yeah, I thought you might. Just a moment."
Then Isaic Gregor, the King of Darnoth, would enter his chambers.
"Your Highness," Helix said. He had no idea what to do, so he took a knee and pointed his face at the floor.
Kai would re-enter and close the door, ensuring their privacy. "You may rise," the King said. "I came to thank you in person, and to ask you about your gift."
"My gift?" Helix stammered, wondering if he was supposed to have something for the man. The only thing he possessed of any value was his father's sword, and he didn't want to part with it. Then he realized what he meant. "Oh. You mean my blindness? The visions?"
"Yes, but that can wait. Kai?"
The other man would produce a wrapped bundle. Helix knew it was real once he pressed it into his hands.
"That's fifty crowns," the King said, and Helix fought to keep his jaw closed. "Consider it a reward from the throne for your loyalty—and your quick wits."
Fifty crowns? He could scarcely comprehend the number. Fifty? It was more than double Lorna's life savings, back in Keldale—more than ten times any amount of coin he'd ever held in his hands.
"That's . . . I . . . that's very generous. Thank you."
"You earned every heel of it, and you're most welcome. We also have an available guest room at the palace. It's yours if you want it."
If it weren't for the weight of the coin in his hands, he would have been certain this was a hallucination. "Your Highness?"
"I think I broke him," Isaic murmured to Kai, who chuckled.
"You heard me," Isaic said. "You've already saved my life once just by being on the grounds. That strikes me as a good reason to keep you there."
"I . . . Your Highness, I'm humbled by the offer, but I . . ." He swallowed and forced the words out. "I'm just a smith's son from a little village in the Valley. I've never even seen a palace. I don't have anything to offer you."
"Besides your foresight, you mean."
Helix felt his cheeks burning. The urge to lie was strong, but he stifled it. "Not even that. What happened was a fluke—pure luck. I have visions, yes, but I can't control them—usually they control me. Not all of them are even true, and half the time I'm not sure what's real and what's not." With each word he felt the King's offer slipping away, but the thought of trying to fake an ability he didn't have made him sick.
"I see," the King said. "When you warned me about the poison, why did you do it? What happened to make you say those words?"
"Well . . ." He paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "I saw you from the hallway, as we walked past." He winced and shook his head. Decided to back up. "I don't see things like I used to, with my eyes. All I ever see now is the future—some futures that will happen, and some that won't. I don't know how to tell them apart. And when I'm not careful, they overwhelm me. I see distant things as easily as I see anything else, and lose all sense of where I am. But most of the time, I can hold on to this . . . sort of . . . thread of the near-future. That's how I'm able to get around. I see things just an instant before they happen. For example, I know you and Kai are here because I can see that you'll be here a moment from now. And sometimes I get glimpses of things that are just out of sight for you—people walking past the door, or people about to enter."
The King would remain riveted. "And that's what happened in the palace."
"Yes. I saw your man slip something into the soup. It was just an impression. I didn't know who you were, or who he was. I just didn't want anyone to get hurt, and I . . . I acted before thinking about where I was, or how it might look."
"Well, thank Akir for that." A pause. "What is this gift? Do you know where it came from?"
"I have a guess." He hesitated. How much was safe to tell him? How much did he already know? The King had turned against the Church, but Helix didn't really know how he felt about Brother Matthew . . . or any of the events that had followed the man's death. Had Lyseira already petitioned him for a pardon, like they'd planned? Was there even any point in doing so, now that the Church had been run out of Keswick?
He set the questions aside and answered the question as honestly as he could without getting into specifics. "I was near a man when he died—a man who I think had a similar condition, a blind man."
"You're talking about Mad Matthew. The apostate."
So he does know. Helix nodded. "I believe he . . . passed it to me, somehow, when he died. I had some visions after that, but they always came as I was asleep, or falling asleep, and I didn't really know what they were. After Marcus burned out my eyes, though, they overwhelmed me. When I was done thinking I had died, I started thinking I had gone mad." He sighed. "I mean, it's a good thing, I suppose." Though I don't think I'm ready to call it a gift. "I'd be completely blind without it, but it's not as if I can tell you what people are thinking or who's going to win in a dog fight. I just can't control it."
"Well, Helix," the King said, "nothing you've said makes me reconsider my offer. I believe you have better control of this gift than you think, and I believe I would be safer with you at the palace. Will you come?"
That word again. Gift.
"You're not . . . commanding me?"
The King's countenance would soften. "No. It's not a command. You're a long way from home, and I understand if you want to stay here, with people you know, to think on it."
He could be lying. Denying the King could anger him, turn him into an enemy—but Helix chose to take him at his word. "Then that's what I'd like to do, Your Highness. I just don't feel right promising something I don't think I can deliver."
The King would glance at the heavy bundle in Helix's hands. "Very well. I can respect that. But you keep that, as a reminder of my gratitude and the benefits of your loyalty. I reward those who prove themselves, and you've already done it. Come to the palace if you change your mind—no need for a page."
"Thank you, Your Highness. I will."
The two of them would leave, closing the door behind them.
I do believe you scared the daylights out of him, Kai would say once they were in the hallway. Kid looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Maybe, the King would answer, but he'll come around. I know it.
/> ii. Angbar
They stayed the night at Tollin's temple, welcomed and celebrated by all the new Kespran converts. Their joy helped wash the memory of Syntal's magic from his mind, but not completely—it left a shroud over his thoughts that he couldn't ignore but had no idea how to respond to. Lyseira seemed to move past the horrors they'd witnessed in the strange underground tower, laughing and smiling and praying with the newest members of her flock, but for Angbar, it wasn't as easy.
They set out the next morning back for Keswick. Several times Angbar almost pulled Lyseira or Seth aside to tell them about Syntal's necromancy; once he nearly approached Takra, just to talk about it. But he always quailed. Ultimately, he simply had no idea what he would say. His chagrin chewed at him as the sleighs set out, but it was a clear day and even slightly warmer, so he tried to focus on the positive. He grasped the joy of the new Kespran recruits in both hands, and wrestled it on to the page.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. It is a primal law, intrinsically true—a law that surpasses any authority. Even a child can recognize the truth of it. It is more fundamental to a good life than any other, and for that reason it is listed here first.
Compassion, honesty, justice—all stem from this single intrinsic rule. While Baltazar's church claimed to recognize its value, they buried it beneath detritus such as the lie of the Fatherlord's divinity and his admonition not to work miracles or sorcery without his church's blessing. This was less a recognition of the rule's eternal truth, and more an attempt to subjugate it to the church's whim.
Upon hearing the rule spoken, all recognize its wisdom—men and women, pale and dark, young and old. This is because it is the written manifestation of the consciences Akir granted all of us at the moment of our creation. It is not the Kespran Church that claims the divinity of this rule. We merely recognize God's hand in ourselves, and state it simply to draw out its power.
Lyseira won't like that, he thought, tapping his teeth with the pen as he glanced over at her. I promised to keep Akir out of it wherever possible. And yet, he thought if there was a place for an exception, it was here. Everything he'd written, he believed to be true; even as a child himself, a heretic by the Church's standards, the fourth Sacred Principle had resonated with him. He shrugged. I can talk her into it, he thought. And besides, he didn't want to lose his momentum.
Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3) Page 30