The act of writing, of codifying everything good that he saw in Lyseira's new church, helped push away his lingering malaise from yesterday's excursion. He'd had enough horror to last a lifetime. It seemed it would never be far. Better to focus on the good in the world, capture it and set it to the page while he could.
Inspiration was fleeting, and there would be plenty of time for dread later.
iii. Lyseira
All of Keswick, it seemed, turned out to welcome them home.
They had left under a cloud of suspicion, with much of the populace worried there was not enough grain to share with surrounding villages, but the Winterwheat field had continued to regrow every night, creating a bounty unprecedented in even the best of past years. The public's wan faces had fleshed out. The fear born of their starvation had burned away, transformed into generosity. They cheered as the sleighs returned from their mercy mission; sang songs of worship to Akir. Lyseira waved to them, her smile sincere.
Another pleasant surprise waited at Majesta, where Donal—one of her converts—had already returned from his group's trip south to Bitterfork. "They accepted all we had, with their thanks," he told her after offering his hand to help her down from the sleigh, "and the temple Keeper actually joined us! His whole temple did, and a dozen townsfolk worked miracles before we left!"
She laughed and told him the same thing had happened in Colmon. Her sense of certainty, of the inevitability of Akir's will, grew stronger than it had been since her days in Southlight.
The King summoned them that night to a reception at the palace, an austere affair where she learned that an attempt had been made on the King's life while they were gone. One of his Crownwardens, Marlon Tegate, had tried to poison him, and Helix had stopped him. Helix, of all people! The news was disquieting, but the fact that the attempt had failed only reinforced her feeling that things were going well.
Afterward, Isaic gathered his advisors, along with Lyseira and the others, in his marble receiving room, where he accepted the sixth wardbook from Syntal and thanked them for their work.
Then he turned to Lyseira and asked her to leave again, the next day, for Twosides.
"Tomorrow?" she said, not certain she'd heard him right.
"The day after, at the latest. After Colmon, Twosides could be the most dangerous to us in a war. They don't have a lot of men, but if they attack us from the rear while Tal'aden marches from the east, the split in our attention could cost us. The Keeper there is an old loyalist. I doubt he'll convert. But if our grain can cut out his support from the populace, they may turn on him—or at least fail to muster when he calls."
"Of course. I'll get a group together." She glanced at Angbar and Shaviid, who returned nods.
"I'll want Angbar and Syntal to accompany you, at a minimum," the King went on. "You said the chanters helped you complete the journey, and this one will be four sleighs of grain instead of three. I want experienced chanters on the trip, not beginners."
"Of course," Lyseira said again. "There is one more thing though—Keeper Bellsong, in Colmon, told me there's a force in Jacobsford waiting to march when the snows melt."
Isaic glanced at Brutus, his master general. "How many men?" Brutus asked.
"He said as many as a thousand. He didn't know for certain, but that was the number he'd heard. They were originally supposed to shore up the town's defenses against an attack from us, but now that the town has joined us―"
"We need to get a force there as soon as the weather breaks," Brutus told the King.
"Sooner, if we can," Lyseira pressed. Brutus shot her a glare for speaking out of turn, but she was used to that. She ignored it. "Our trip wasn't that bad—it only took a few extra days, and we didn't lose anyone."
"You had three sleighs? Fewer than twenty people?"
"Three sleighs of grain, yes, but it's not as if we didn't have problems. The chanters were able to―"
"Chanters or no chanters," Brutus interrupted, speaking again to the King, "moving three sleighs and marching an army of a thousand are completely different things. I know how important Colmon is. But I can't advise marching in these conditions unless you want to lose half the troops and half the supplies before you get there—if you get there at all."
Lyseira fumed. "I promised him we'd be there as soon as we could."
The King nodded and held up a hand. Then he tapped the sixth wardbook. "Will this end the winter when I open it?"
Syn shook her head. "There's no way to know for certain. The fifth book didn't, but hopefully this one . . . I can't say."
"Do you think it's a possibility?"
"Oh, certainly. In fact, if you're asking me, we should open it now. The sooner I begin studying the chants in it, the sooner I can find the next book."
Isaic nodded, thinking, and then turned back to Lyseira. "Not yet. Finish in Twosides. Bring them around, hopefully, or at least erode his support. Once we know where we stand with them, I'll decide on the troops for Colmon—and the book."
Lyseira shook her head, but he went on. "I understand the urgency, Lyseira. I do. I share it. We can't lose Colmon, and we won't. Your promise will be kept."
She swallowed her protest. If he's lying, I can still send Kesprey up there—as many as I can fit in the wagons, she thought. She sighed and nodded. "Twosides. Tomorrow." She stood. "By your leave, Your Highness, I need to start preparing."
"The sleighs are already loaded," he said, "but you have my leave. Godspeed."
iv. Takra
Takra was cold and tired, still troubled by what she'd seen in the structure beneath Colmon, and wanted more than anything to crawl into her bed and sleep. But when she got back to the school, Carren snagged her as she crossed the study hall. "Takra! You're back!"
The other students called a flurry of hellos. It was strange, feeling so welcomed—it arrested her, made her smile despite herself. "Yeah." She set down her pack. "It was a long trip. What have you lot been up to?"
"Third table," Carren bragged, gesturing at the papers in front of her.
Takra felt a genuine thrill of happiness for her friend. "That's great! See, I told you you'd manage it."
"I'm almost fourth," Kirkus said. Takra gave him a withering smile: Of course you are. Her opinion of him hadn't changed since the first day. A lot of people liked him because he was affable and well-to-do, the son of a popular silk merchant. But to Takra he was just a smarmy rich boy who always had to upstage everyone.
"But Torthan's the one who's really taken off," Vitar said. He was Torthan's older brother by a few years; the two of them had come down with the blood fever at the same time. "Harth's been tutoring him almost every day. He wrote his own chant, and he's at fourth table already."
"Fourth?" Takra exclaimed. When she'd left, the man had barely joined table two. "He skipped a whole table while I was gone?"
"I can hear you," Torth called from across the room. Carren and Vitar laughed.
"Torth, what's your secret?" Kirkus called back. The sight should have been strange—Kirkus had seen ten fewer summers than Torth, whose face looked like it was carved from marble and would have intimidated the younger students in any other setting. But they were all equals here; the chants, the thrill of the challenge, and the bristling risk of it all made respect for elders take on a whole new meaning. The only elder that got any respect around here was Ben—and Harth and Syntal, of course.
It was a far cry from the rigid structure she'd endured for her entire childhood with the old Church; an entirely new way of looking at life and the world. It was everything Lyseira was trying to create with the Kespran church, without all the baggage of the Fatherlord's old titles.
I love it, she suddenly realized.
I love it here.
"I told you," Torth grumbled—but he got up to come over to the table, so he clearly didn't mind telling them again. "Write a chant. Write your own, or modify one of the wardbook spells. You learn fast."
"Have you done that yet, Takra?" Carren
asked.
"Not yet," she said. "But I haven't really had time. I learned a lot over the last couple weeks, though."
"Oh, that's right!" Vitar said. "You were with Syntal!"
"Well, out with it," Carren demanded, her eyes burning with mischief beneath her auburn bangs. "What's she like?"
Belline, who had been passing toward the dorms, found a reason to stop and inspect a chair; Torthan halted halfway to his table and turned back. Suddenly, most of the room was waiting on her every word.
"She's . . ." Takra hesitated, trying to navigate her complex feelings about the girl. Despite what she'd done, Takra didn't want to malign her—especially not to the other students. "Intense," she finally managed, with complete honesty.
"Yeah?" Carren urged her.
"Did you get to see any of the fifth-Seal chants?" Torth asked.
"Did I ever," Takra said.
"Did you get to cast any?" Clive asked, excitedly. He was the youngest of them, at twelve summers.
"Oh, yeah," she said, infected by the boy's enthusiasm. "There was this one that . . ." She thought of the statue, and the spell she'd cast to speak with it—but that would lead to more questions, maybe even about the sixth wardbook, which she wasn't sure she had permission to talk about. "I . . . probably shouldn't say," she finished, lamely.
"What?" Carren exclaimed.
"You tease," Kirkus drawled.
"Oh, leave her be," Belline said. "I'm sure she's got her reasons. And she's got to be exhausted—look at her, poor thing. We're just happy you're home, Love."
Home, Takra thought. "Yeah. Me too." She picked up her pack again.
"Oh no," Carren insisted. "This is not over. You and I will be talking more, later."
Takra laughed. "M'sai." Truth be, she couldn't wait.
She slept like the dead. In the morning, refreshed by her feelings of coming home and filled with a hope she couldn't define, she went to her grandfather's.
He greeted her in an undershirt and breeches, in the process of getting ready for the day. It shocked her, reminded her of too many horrific encounters with Shephatiah.
"Takra," he said. "Come in, come in."
"I can come back," Takra said, her gorge suddenly rising. "If this is a bad time―"
"No! No, no. Come in, have a seat." He was flustered, flitting about the place like a dragonfly. "How was your trip?"
"It . . ."
He's just getting dressed. He's not doing anything to you. He's not Shephatiah. She wrestled down her anxiety—she didn't want it to ruin this. Finally she took a deep breath and stepped inside. "It was incredible."
He threw her a smile as he dug through his wardrobe for a tunic. "Yeah? I heard Lyseira had good luck with the Keeper up there. That's good news, for all of us."
"It is. I spent a lot of the time with Syntal. She's . . . teaching me more about chanting." She unveiled the word carefully, gauging his reaction. Obviously he knew she was a chanter—he had met her at Syntal's school. But she wanted to make sure it was all right, that it didn't bother him.
"I heard about that. You know, when you were little and you worked a miracle, we didn't care what it was. Your dad thought it was a gift from Akir no matter how you got it, and I thought the same." He fixed on her eyes. "Still do. It doesn't bother me any."
A relieved smile stole over her face.
"So what do you think of Syntal? I spent a lot of time with those kids, heading up Thakhan Dar."
"She's . . ." Terrifying. Brilliant. Magnetic. Truth be, she wasn't sure what she thought of Syntal, which made it hard to talk about her—but she felt she could be more open with her grandfather than she'd been with the other students. "Amazing. Really smart. She saw a new spell while we were finding the sixth wardbook, and by the time we got back yesterday, she'd already figured it out and written it down."
"Yeah? What spell was that?"
"She calls it Vanish. It makes her disappear."
The idea arrested him. "It turns her invisible?"
"Right."
"That's . . ." He gave a low whistle. "Wow. That could make all the difference against Tal'aden. Does the King know?"
"I don't know. She might have told him last night. I was back at the school."
"I'll make sure to tell him." He'd started moving again—found a shirt and was now pulling on a pair of heavy wool socks.
"That would be good. It's the kind of thing I think she might forget about." She wasn't sure why she wanted to say what came next, but she let herself say it anyway. "I'm . . . pretty good at it too, actually. Chanting. The best student they've seen. That's what Syntal said, anyway—Harth, too."
"Is that right?" Was that pride in his eyes? "Well, ain't that a thing. I can just imagine what Trius would―"
He fell silent, and Takra felt a spike of anxiety penetrate her heart at the mention of the man's name. It twisted her up inside, left her feeling unmoored and frantic.
"You don't have to talk about him," she said.
A cloud came into his eyes. "Well, actually, I do. You deserve to know, and I'd rather you hear it from me."
Oh, Akir, she thought as tension seized her. What now?
"No," Kai said, reading the look in her eyes. "No, no, Takra—it's nothing like―" He spat it out. "He was still here, in Keswick. There was a plot to kill the King, and he was behind it. I found him. And I killed him."
Compared to the other revelations she'd had about the man, this one bordered on pleasant. She hated the relief she felt—but in this case, she'd forgive herself. "Good," she murmured, and glanced at her grandfather to see if he'd judge her.
He didn't. He nodded.
"Good," she said again. The word tasted delicious. "Are you . . . all right? He didn't hurt you?"
Kai shrugged. "He stabbed me in the stomach and the arm. I got to the Kesprey in time."
The anxiety in her chest boiled away, left her feeling light and free. It was like the last shackle to her old life had just broken, releasing her to soar into a new one where anything was possible—where she had family, and friends, and a calling. "So," she said, "are you making me dinner tonight?"
He winced. His face fell.
"No?"
"I . . . you didn't hear."
"Hear what?"
"I'm leaving, this afternoon—the King ordered another charity mission to Twosides."
"Oh." Suddenly she recognized that he was packing. She'd been so preoccupied before, she hadn't noticed.
She felt an instant's disappointment, and he saw it on her face; launched into a string of apologies and promises. "No, Papa." She didn't want him to feel that way. He didn't deserve all the guilt he felt. "It's all right. I'll be here when you get back. We'll do it then."
"Damn right we will. I mean, all I've got is sourdough toast, but it'll be excellent."
She laughed.
v. Harth
Syntal had come back late from the King's reception. Told him she'd found the sixth wardbook, her voice like a trail of silver in the velvet darkness, then made quiet, gasping love to him, sweet as a dream.
Now, with the glare of the morning sun, she was leaving again.
"But you just got back," he protested—stupidly, because it wouldn't make any difference.
"The King ordered me to go." She was already dressed, still packed from the trip she'd just taken. "I can't refuse."
"I'm not saying you shouldn't go. I'm just saying . . ." That I want you here. That I want to hear about everything that happened, every detail; that I want to be your confidante, the only one who understands.
For God's sake. Get ahold of yourself, man.
"What was it like?" he said. "Where was the book? What chants did you use? I need to know these things. They're important. If something happens to you―"
"Takra and Angbar were there. They know. We had to talk to a statue's mind. Takra actually figured it out. Oh." She halted as if she'd just run headlong into a tree. "Actually, there is something I should tell you before I go." Sh
e took a chair, and he sat on the bed, facing her.
"I had to use that revenant spell to find the book. It was part of the test."
"I knew it," Harth said. "I knew he wouldn't keep referring to it if we weren't ever going to need it." Another thought occurred to him, one that left him wary. "Did Seth . . . ?"
"He didn't see. Lyseira neither. It was pulse-shades again, like the ones I told you about in Kesselholm. They got distracted by them. Didn't catch up until I was finished." She breathed a chuckle. "Thank Akir." The wisp of a smile vanished as fast as it had come on. "But the chant, Harth. It was . . . vile. Horrible. If Iggy had been there, he'd have . . ."
She trailed off. He gave her a moment, waiting.
"It tasted like mud. Or sehk. It was disgusting. I never want to cast it again, and I don't want the school to have access to it. M'sai?"
"What about the first one you found? The one from the third book—the one that heals?"
"Might heal. After seeing what the fifth-Seal spell did, I'd rather die than try to heal myself with that chant. Forbidden. It has to be." She took his hands. "All right?"
He'd already agreed once. "All right. Of course. Just—don't burn it. Like we said."
"M'sai." She stood back up, grabbed her things, gave him a kiss—
And then she was gone.
18
i. Melakai
On the fifth day out from Keswick, the trembling smoke stains and pale lights of Twosides appeared in the river valley beneath them, straddling the Nightwhisper River. The road through the hills was only a memory, buried somewhere beneath the weight of winter, so they cut their own gentle switchback through the snow of the dwindling ridge. It was slow going, but steady, and as the western sun began to paint the Scar with the colors of dusk the next night, they pulled at last toward the town's eastern entry.
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