She paled and fell silent. Brushed back a stray lock of black hair with a trembling hand.
"We swore. I promised him. He gives the orders."
"Even if the whole world dies waiting for him to see reason?" Torthan asked.
"I don't think that'll happen," Solon answered. The kids called him Horseface behind his back because of the long shape of his head, but it didn't ruffle him. He was an older man, reserved and thoughtful. Harth liked him. "Give the man a chance."
A knock came at the door. Even through the blizzard, even with the sun failing, the blood fever victims kept coming. "I agree with Solon," Harth said as he got up. "He's a wise man; we should all listen to him." He opened the door to find a royal page.
"Harth Silwain?" the young man said. "A summons from the King, for you and Ben Ashandiel. You're to come at once."
The cold and the storm had driven away most of the hecklers; only a few shivering silhouettes lurked in the alley now, and they were too cold to muster much harassment.
Harth and Ben mounted and followed the page, cutting through the driving snow and circling around the normal back streets, now choked off with looming snow drifts. Their progress was plagued by fits and starts, the storm batting them from one route to another like a cat with a ball of twine.
The wind drowned out any conversation, leaving Harth alone with his thoughts: a place he had striven to avoid since Syntal's murder. He had sought out noise and distractions relentlessly, seeking anything to keep his distance from that boiling grief.
Falling in love with Syntal had been like becoming entwined by snaking vines. They had caressed him, stolen over him, and he had marveled at their beauty and surrendered to them, relishing their grip.
But her death had transformed them. Instead of vanishing they had gone to leprosy, their beauty given way to a putrid slickness. They still clung to him, seized him, dragging at his feet when he tried to walk and his heart when he tried to breathe. They were a nest of horrors he was desperate to escape.
Once, he had even nearly gone to Rebecca, although the prospect sickened him. He hadn't craved her; he'd craved the audacity she offered. He had needed something rash, something brazen, an alternative to Ascending until he scorched his soul to ash. He would've been just as satisfied to walk out the front door and annihilate the school's hecklers, to melt the flesh from their bones.
In the end he had done something worse than any of these. He had opened the third wardbook, and studied Syntal's forbidden healing spell.
He could recite it from memory now, if he wanted to. It had been the easiest spell he'd ever learned; as eager to inscribe itself on him as he had been to commit an act of excess. It left him feeling stained. Unclean. He had broken his oath to his dead lover, and for no reason other than to escape his thoughts of her.
But he couldn't escape her. The vines were as tight as ever.
By the time they arrived at the palace, hours later, the sun had completed its retreat. The Keswick streets were dark as midnight, when they should have been heading toward highsun. The blackness made him feel like the world was dying. Like God had abandoned the whole Hel-damned thing to suffering and starvation in the void.
The pale shadow of the moon and their own chanterlights were the only sources of guidance as they approached the palace gates, where the page spoke briefly to the guards and showed them through.
Inside, every fireplace crackled, flooding the halls with blesséd heat. "Here," the page said, leading them into Isaic's receiving room. He seated them opposite the door. Two Crownwardens entered—Harth didn't recognize either of them—and the page vanished into the halls.
Isaic came in shortly, with Melakai Thorn just behind him. "I'm glad you're here," the King said. He nodded at Kai, who produced a document. "I'm going to cut straight to the heart of the matter: people are terrified of you. The only reason they didn't burn your school down after what Syntal did is because they believe I can control you. If that belief ever falters, they'll turn against both of us. We'll all die, while the Church rejoices.
"That's why I'm splitting your school."
He turned the parchment, corners weighted with stones, so they could see it.
"Two schools—guilds, leagues, whatever you wish to call them. Each of you will lead one, and I'll grant each of you a thousand gold crowns to lay the foundation."
This is why he called us here? Harth could scarcely believe what he'd just heard. The world is dying just outside his window, and he sits here playing games?
He craned his head to look at the parchment, where he saw the words confirmed in ink. An old voice—the one that had kept him alive in the streets his whole life—forced him to think. Don't dismiss this, you idiot. The King of Darnoth just offered you a thousand crowns. His mind raced past its reflexive dismissal, taking in the details.
"Your Highness," Ben stammered, "I—I don't think―"
"I've not given you leave to speak, Elderman," Isaic said. "I haven't finished."
Ben nodded, looking abashed and pale.
"I leave the details to each of you, but I have these requirements:
"Each school must be a distinct entity, with its own organization and leadership structure. You are not to possess sole authority for your school, though you may choose those who govern it with you.
"Each school must swear fealty to the throne and abide by the tenets you've already authored, and have a mechanism for punishing those who do not follow the tenets.
"The schools may not coordinate internally. You may be civil to each other in public, to be sure—but you may not share intelligence or research. Each institution should be opaque to the other."
Suddenly, Harth understood. He wants us to keep each other in check, he realized. He doesn't have the power to fight chanters, so he's making them their own adversary. It had a certain eloquent beauty to it, a simple but effective solution to the King's problem. Harth found himself admiring it despite himself—and wondering with a pang what Syntal would have said, if she were still here.
"You may not share students. No chanter can ever belong to both schools at once.
"All chanters must register with the throne. I will maintain my own list of every chanter's name, table, and history.
"Those are the broad strokes—the details are here." He tapped the parchment. "I assume you have questions."
"I don't," Harth said. "I accept your command."
Ben started. "Harth?"
"It's a good idea, Ben. It makes perfect sense. The chanters become a check on their own power. It's brilliant."
"But what about the sixth wardbook?" Ben asked. "What about the students we already have?"
"They'll have to choose," the King said, "though I want them divided as evenly as possible. Each school will be responsible for its own recruitment. As for the wardbooks—when the time comes, both schools will have equal access to the books. You'll need to publicly negotiate the terms of the arrangement. It's all here." He nodded again at the document.
"Your Highness," Ben started, then waited for the King to nod his permission to speak. "I . . . I'm honored, truly, that you think so highly of me. Honored and humbled. But I'm not staying in Keswick. When the winter breaks . . ." He faltered, casting an uncertain glance at the midday darkness beyond the window. "I'm going home to Twosides. I never meant to stay as long as I have."
"You misunderstand me, Benjamin," the King said, not ungently. "This is not a request. It's a command from your King."
Ben straightened. A storm of emotions flickered through his eyes before he slammed down a mask of acceptance. "I understand, Your Highness," he answered. "I will serve, of course."
"Good." The King nodded at Melakai, who produced a second copy of the document. "Take these—one for each of you. Show them to anyone who wants to see them, chanter or otherwise. The decree is public. Assemble your charters, divide your students, and form estimates for your costs. I understand that may be difficult, given the city's predicament—I'll allow for le
eway. Send a page to the palace once the details are in order, and I'll call an audience. Do you understand?"
Harth struggled to contain the swirl of emotions thundering through him. The King had given him an extraordinary gift, one that surpassed his wildest hopes. He had wanted something brazen? Something brash? His new school would be all of that and more. He already had a name for it in mind, even. He ached for Syntal, longed to share this with her—the thread of that pain ran through everything—but now, at least, he had something to which he could divert his attention.
No, he realized, not could. Must.
Ben spoke. "I do, but Your Highness—we came here to talk to you about the sixth wardbook. The winter has worsened." He gestured at the wall full of windows, where the supernatural night smothered the glass. "The sun reversed itself today. Syntal said they were warned in Ordlan Green that this could happen—that the only way to stop it was―"
"To open the next wardbook." The King gave a sharp nod. "Yes, I'm aware. Don't worry, Elderman. I know we need to open the book soon, and we will.
"But that book holds power, too, and I won't allow either of you that power until I know how you plan to be good stewards of it. Your charters first." His eyes roamed the black windows, considering, before returning to the chanters. "If the Stormsign bothers you so much, I suggest you be quick about it."
ii. Seth
He slept buried in a void as heavy as boulders. He was too leaden to dream, but visions flitted at the edge of his awareness. Syntal's blood. Lyseira's naked grief. Endless grey snow. And older things, hauled from the buried pit of his subconscious: black water and empty rope. All of it swirling and intangible, a host of apparitions.
When he woke, they clung to him like cobwebs. He could feel them caught against the jagged angles of his mind and whispering against the stubble on his scalp, accentuating his confusion at finding himself on the floor of a dark room—hardly more than a closet—with earthen walls and ceiling. His hunger had become a lump of smoking coal in his stomach: small, hard, and shriveled. But the cold had left him, taking with it the numbness from his mind and his fingers alike.
He sat up and made for the cramped door. A rusted wood stove burned in the corner of the room beyond, beneath a simple iron chimney that led into the ceiling. Two more doors led out—one on the same wall as the door he'd just come through, and another on the wall perpendicular. Retash rested on the floor alone, reclining against the opposite wall. His eyes flicked open as Seth entered the small room.
"You're alive," he said. "Do you remember coming here?"
Seth shook his head.
"Do you remember waking, before? Weeping?"
Seth hesitated. Some of his breakdown had been caused by his brush with death, he knew—but only some. He could lie now, but he suspected his former master wouldn't be fooled.
He nodded.
Retash gained his feet. "I don't know why you came here, Seth. There's nothing here for either of us but death. I don't have answers, and even if I did, my answers may not be the same as yours."
Seth said nothing. He was aware of his own stench, the weeks of sweat and loathing blending with the thick stink of other unwashed bodies and burning wood. He felt exposed, naked as a newborn.
Wordlessly, Retash led him to one of the doors and ushered him through.
The room was larger than the others. Seven people labored within—dark and pale, young and old, men and women, but all gaunt, all starving, their eyes like dying embers in the hard angles of their wan faces. Three meditated in forms Seth recognized from the Teachings; the other four sparred in an open melee, but slowly, as if fighting at the bottom of a lake.
"As I said, we have no food," Retash explained. "I'm teaching them to function without it."
Seth watched the starving forms moving in a mockery of the Teachings, and felt a sudden, deep scorn for the thing he had always treasured. "Did we ever really learn to function without it?" he growled. "Or did we just learn to hide the suffering while we waited to die of hunger?"
"All people die. Is there really a difference?"
"The Teachings say there is. And the Teachings are sacred."
"Yes. Sacred as manna."
This forced Seth's eyes to his master's, where he was sure he would find condemnation—but he didn't. Retash didn't even meet his glance. The accusation Seth thought he'd heard in the words faded. Behind it, Seth heard wonderment instead. Revelation.
"Do you know what happened to this town?" Retash said. "When they began to starve, they began to suffer. Their suffering led to fighting and panic. They raided each other, killed each other. Some died that way. Others ran into the winter, and died that way instead." He gestured at the small gathering of students. "Not these. These came to me for help, and I gave it. I taught them to spare their suffering. Without the suffering, without the fear, the worst of it is lessened. We'll survive here until our bodies and our wills give out, but we won't die early. We won't die of panic, like animals."
Seth heard the words, but didn't understand them. "But how? It takes years of discipline to learn to deny hunger. You told me―"
"I lied," Retash said. "The Teachings lie. About that and a great many other things." Still, he avoided Seth's eyes. "The Preservers teach emptiness as a means to an end. I'm not sure it needs to be. I think it may be an end unto itself.
"Look at them," he went on, nodding again toward the students. "They are no one. They have no training. They did not begin as children. They have only one thing: dedication. Yet each of them has mastered a technique that should have taken years."
Seth watched one of the sparrers bring her hand into a slow chop toward her opponent's neck. The shorter man crouched beneath the attack as if caught in molasses. Seth snorted. "But it's a farce. They're not sparring—they're playing, like children. None of them could win a real fight."
"I disagree," Retash said. "They are winning the only fight that matters."
Without food, there was no need for meal breaks; without a living city, there was no need to socialize. Shorn of these trappings of regular daily life, the hours became an endless, surreal stretch of training, meditation, and brief rests. Seth had nowhere to go. He had set out with every intention of dying. So he remained, as the hours or days washed sluggishly past.
It reminded him of his time growing up in the Preserver compound, but only superficially. He wasn't involved here, for one. The "students"—if that label applied—practiced without him. He felt no urge to join them, whereas at the compound he had always been training, sometimes even leading. But the differences ran much deeper than that.
At the compound he had always had a purpose: to receive his mark and serve out the rest of his days in defense of a charge. Here, there was no purpose. They practiced combat with no intention of ever applying it; denied the needs of their flesh solely so they could see tomorrow. It was survival for survival's sake.
It disgusted him.
But he recognized that disgust as a trained, automatic reaction to blasphemy. It was the same disgust he felt every time Lyseira worked a miracle, no matter its worth, or examined his own life. Indeed, he felt that disgust whenever he witnessed nearly anything—even the world itself was a shadow, the Teachings said, a mere holding place for spirits on their way to whatever eternal afterlife awaited them. To engage in it, to experience it at all, was to blaspheme, for it wasn't real.
If that's the case, he wondered one day as he watched the seven students labor, how far gone am I now? They work for no purpose, which is deplorable enough, but I don't even do that. I sit and watch—and judge, he realized. But he already bristled with self-inflicted accusations; this newest one didn't even penetrate him. He observed it from a distance, a viewer through a window, much as he did with the students around him.
"I have done a great deal of thinking since I came here," Retash said, appearing at his side. "And I've realized many mistakes. I can't atone for them. But I can apologize for some of them." He sought out Seth's eyes, a
nd Seth turned to him. "I should not have taken you as a student. It was a mistake."
Seth had thought he couldn't hate himself more deeply. He was wrong.
His training—his skill with the martial Teachings—was the one thing at which he knew he excelled. He may have failed at the philosophy and history which served as the Teachings' foundation, but in the art itself, few had been better. Now, with a single breath's admission, Retash stole even that.
"Why?" he managed. The word bared his heart, left it open to any final assault, but he had to ask it.
"You were too young."
He had expected anything else. You could never focus, or You never listened. But too young? Seth had lived through ten winters when Retash took him—students of five were often considered regrettably old to begin a Preserver's life. That had always been another point of secret pride for him: not only had he been the best combatant in his class, but he had reached that distinction with less than half the training time of many of his peers.
Retash saw his confusion. "I know. We were taught the opposite—I taught the opposite. But I wonder about that, too. You were a child of ten winters. Few are wise enough to make that kind of choice at that age."
"But I did," Seth said. "I did make the choice. I wanted to come. I'd wanted to come for as long as I could remember."
"Yet you were still ten," Retash returned. "You say you wanted to come, but did you truly understand what it entailed? How serious the training was, how deeply it would scar you?"
"I . . ." He felt suddenly attacked, off-balance. "I would have committed to any training, no matter how serious."
"Yes," Retash said, "because you were too young and too wounded to know better."
"I knew," Seth retorted. "I knew I had to surrender my family, I knew what I was giving up."
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