Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3)

by Adam J Nicolai

  Papa. That had been her name for him. It echoed in old, haunted hallways of her memory, along with other words like Daddy and home. Words that had meant something once—had meant everything once. They existed in a place of happiness long forgotten, suffused with laughter and love. She had just started to open those doors, to rediscover what had been lost behind them. She hadn't realized how badly she had longed to hear his gravelly voice again until it had been ripped away from her.

  She found herself in front of his home, staring at the front door and imagining that she could open it to find him. She nearly tricked herself into doing it—had climbed the front stoop and placed one hand on the knob, ready to force her way in if needed—when she sank to her knees and dissolved into sobs.

  Maybe the old Church had been right all along. Maybe witchcraft was every bit the sin they claimed, and for working it, Akir would not just punish her but dismantle her: build her up with tantalizing glimpses of the life she had always desired so that He could gouge them out of her and leave her a ruin. Maybe, in the end, she had never been more than a filthy temptation for her old Keeper; had never earned any shred of the joy her grandfather and friends had brought her. She could see no other explanation for why Akir had taken everything away: she had never deserved any of it.

  "Takra?"

  She lifted her head, shuddering, her vision stained with tears and the curtain of her limp hair. "Angbar?"

  Part of her didn't want him to see her like this. Part of her couldn't bring itself to care.

  "Oh, Takra." He came to the step but kept a respectful distance, eyes heavy with sympathy. "I thought I might find you here. Solon told us everything that happened—and Lyseira came by the school, looking for you. We're all worried. You should come home."

  Home. The word was like a knife to the heart.

  A wail boiled up from her chest. "I . . . I can't! I don't want . . . don't want to see . . ." Ah, God. Oh, Akir. "They all died, Angbar! Carren and Kirkus! Vitar! Oster! And my Papa, my sehking Papa, they all . . ." The wail tore loose, rending her voice before she could finish.

  "Ah, sehk," Angbar whimpered. He climbed the step and sat next to her, then put an arm around her shoulder. She stiffened, her sobs hitching—but Angbar wasn't Shephatiah. He was kind and gentle. He had never meant harm.

  She collapsed into him and wept.

  He led her back to Redding Lane, but when they reached the school, she halted.

  "I can't," she said, shaking her head. "I can't go in. I can't see it."

  Angbar turned back. "Where would you rather go?" he asked, gently.

  "I don't know. I don't know, I just . . . I can't see it empty. I just can't."

  He gave her a timid smile. "Takra. It's not empty." And he opened the door.

  The warmth struck her first, a welcome respite from the evening cold, followed by the brilliant, all-encompassing light—and finally, the noise. Conversations. Laughter. Debates. Lectures.

  Students thronged the main study hall, lining the walls and overflowing the tables. Some studied at tables alone; others gathered in pairs or discussion groups. There were faces she recognized—Belline and Sara; Harth; Clive, up past his bedtime—but far more that she didn't.

  "Who . . . ?" Takra started. "These are all new students?"

  "It was the sixth Seal," Angbar said. "It woke new chanters everywhere. We're moving to a new building, we've got so many—so are the Arwah."

  Carren wasn't here. Vitar wasn't here. But there were so many students, so many new tables, that Takra could scarcely remember where her friends had used to sit. It was chaotic, nearly unrecognizable. Almost worse than her fears, in a way—as if she had returned home to find it not empty, but owned by someone new.

  "Takra!" Belline saw her and peeled away from the group of kids she was working with. "Takra! Oh, thank God, you found her." The portly woman hauled Takra into a hug. Again, Takra stiffened; and again, tried to remember her friend meant her no harm. "We were worried sick, Love," Belline said as she pulled away. "Where were you?"

  "Takra?" Harth cut through the crowd. "I'm so sorry about Melakai." He opened his arms, and Takra raised a hand.

  "All right," she said. "All right, enough of the hugs. It's a'fin. Thank you." She offered a half-hearted smile, trying to temper her words.

  "Are you all right?" Harth asked.

  She nodded. "I'm all right. I . . ." She gestured past him, to the packed room. "This is incredible."

  "I know," Harth said. "I know, I never expected . . ." He shook his head. "Syn was right. She knew this would happen. And this is just the beginning."

  Syn. Another staggering loss for the school, one Takra had somehow nearly forgotten in the aftermath of Colmon. And yet, the new chanters had still come; there were more students now than ever.

  And they're going to war, too, she thought. Soon. And they have no idea. Memories of blind panic, of the mass confusion that had killed so many soldiers and chanters alike, detonated in her thoughts. Not again, she thought. We're never doing that again.

  "Where is Ben?" she said.

  "In the back," Angbar said. He extricated them from Belline and Harth. "I know he wanted to talk to you, too."

  They found him with Solon at a little table in the back room; Solon stood when he saw her, a question in his eyes.

  "It's all right, Solon," she said, waving him down. "I'm all right. I'm sorry I worried you." She turned to Ben. "I need to talk to you. Before the King calls on us again—we need to do some things differently."

  "I agree," Ben said. "Please sit. Angbar, you too."

  "No, not at the school," Takra said. "On the battlefield. We can't send anyone out there again without knowing what to expect. We have to practice—we have to plan for it. Kirk thought we were ready because we talked a little bit on the wagons, but it . . ." She looked at Solon. "You were there. It was a disaster."

  "Good," Ben said. "I knew you'd have some thoughts. Listen.

  "Angbar and I started seeking the seventh wardbook while you were gone, as the King commanded. All signs are that it's south—nearly due south. And not in Darnoth."

  That surprised her. "Shalda?"

  "Or Borkalis," Angbar agreed. "Or somewhere beneath the open sea anywhere between here and there."

  "Even at worst, it should only be a few months' round trip," Ben said. "Syntal said none of the wardbooks have been that hard to locate, and I expect the same here."

  Insight struck her. "You want to send me after it." She was torn by the prospect: thrilled by the possibility of finding a wardbook on her own, appalled by the notion of abandoning the school just as war broke out.

  "I did," Ben said. "But that was before I heard about Colmon.

  "You took charge when Kirkus froze. Solon said without you he's sure he wouldn't have come back alive. You held the group together. You brought down the bridge. Everyone . . ." His eyes softened. "Well. Everyone who made it back . . . has told me you saved that mission."

  Had she? The night was a blur of blood and death. She had reacted, constantly, all night—she had never been ahead of events, never directed them. Ben made her sound like the glue that had held it all together, when the fact was she could barely remember any given moment.

  And yet, she had done the things he said.

  "No. I wasn't in control," she argued. "You make it sound like I was, but I barely even knew what was happening. And when the Mal'shedaal came . . ." She trailed off, the memory too horrid to voice.

  "But that's just it, Takra. It was a battlefield. And everyone was looking to you, because you were the only one who kept her wits." He shook his head. "I've given this a lot of thought. This . . ." He waved a hand, taking in the clamor from the next room along with everything else. "All this . . . the King put me in charge of it, I think, because I'm the eldest, and he has reason to trust me. But I'm an architect. I have a good mind for chanting, I think I've shown that, but this is a job for younger minds. I don't believe we can spare you, not even for a few months
.

  "I'm going to journey south looking for the wardbook. I want you, Solon, and Angbar to run the school while I'm gone."

  "I . . ." He had struck the words out of her. Angbar watched her intently. "I told Syntal, I told Harth—I don't like teaching."

  "You won't have to," Ben said.

  "I can handle that part," Angbar said. "Belline has a knack for it, too, and a few others."

  "But you've a mind for strategy," Ben went on. "And organization." He pointed a thumb toward the wall. "There are over a hundred new students in that room. I haven't decided what to do with them all yet. You probably have."

  She started to protest. "Well, I . . ."

  We need a strict age limit for battlefield participation.

  We need to expand the tables and implement a test before moving from one to the next—a test of runic knowledge as well as responsible use.

  We need to develop battlefield tactics and drill them until they are second nature. We need a cleared field in which to practice those drills.

  We need to improve that mental communication spell, find a way to harness it during battle so that every chanter in a unit can always stay in contact.

  We need light everywhere, all the time, to prevent a Mal'shedaal stepping from the shadows—and an automatic response if they do.

  "I . . . have some ideas," she admitted.

  Ben smiled.

  vi. Cort

  Six months ago, Melakai had left for Thakhan Dar with the witches from Southlight to seek a wardbook. Now, the King had sent Cort on a similar errand. Cort still couldn't believe that his mentor was dead—and couldn't shake the feeling that history was repeating itself.

  There was only one witch from Southlight this time, though. Iggy was companionable enough—he even joined Cort and the other soldiers for dice or cards some nights—but there was something off about him, too: the way he would jerk his head too tightly when he heard a sound, or sniff the air while he had his eyes glued to the sky. Everyone knew what he could do, of course. The stories were rampant even before the journey started, and since it had, Cort had witnessed the man become an animal with his own two eyes. He didn't like it. None of the King's men did. It was sorcery, plain and simple, and none of them trusted sorcery, Witch's Amnesty or no.

  But the King's orders were plain, and Cort meant to follow them. And besides, the other two witches were quite nearly worse.

  Rebecca was an Arwah, a sullen, quiet girl with frayed, dark brown hair who spent most of her time brooding. She was capable, Harth had assured him, and was more than qualified to represent the Arwah on this mission. But Cort had the distinct impression she didn't want to be here, and her dour mood lent her a sinister air—an unfortunate trait in someone the men were disinclined to trust to begin with.

  And then there was Ben, the old man who the Church had imprisoned last year. The King trusted him, and he was affable, but Cort detected a hint of aloofness about him. As if he felt he were too good to spend much time around the King's soldiers, or maybe afraid of them. He'd never accepted an invitation to game with them. Maybe he's just old, Cort mused.

  So, then. Not the company he'd likely have chosen for a long, overseas trip . . . but then, the kingdom was at war with itself. Maybe I should just be glad I won't be here while everyone kills each other, he thought. Maybe, if I'm lucky, they'll have it good and sorted by the time I'm back.

  Besides, he did enjoy the smell of the sea. And in Chesport, at the Slobbering Dog tavern, the smell of the sea was inescapable.

  "There," Iggy said, pointing to a man having a drink by an open window. "White patch on the shoulder—that's him."

  "Wait out here," Cort told his men. "This should be quick."

  He followed Iggy and Ben into the bar. Perched on a hillside overlooking the docks, its far windows afforded a grand view of the bay.

  "Captain Lucius?" Iggy asked as they approached the man. He looked up. "Of the Lady Beth?"

  The Captain was wiry and tall; sitting at the bar he reminded Cort of a spider folding itself into a thimble. "Yeah?" he said. "Who's asking?"

  "I'm Iggy Ardenfell. This is Cort and Ben. We heard you're headed south."

  "Headed to Borkalis," Lucius said. "Running some of the King's grain down that way."

  "We're headed that way, too," Iggy said. "Shalda for certain, maybe Borkalis. Looking to hire passage."

  "Well, Shalda'll set us out of our way a bit. How do you not know where you're going?"

  Cort shot Iggy a look. They'd argued about this part: Iggy wanted to be honest, Cort wanted to be circumspect. Iggy had agreed to do it Cort's way, but now it looked like he was stumbling over what to say—or having second thoughts.

  "We're on a mission for the King," Cort cut in. He flashed a letter, bearing the King's seal. "We can't say more than that."

  "Once we reach Shalda, we'll be able to tell you for certain whether we need to go on," Ben added.

  "Well, that doesn't help me," Lucius said, but he thought it over and shrugged. "Already running throne business. In for a heel, in for a crown I suppose. How many of you?"

  "The three of us"—Iggy circled a finger to indicate—"plus four more men and a girl."

  "Eight?" Lucius paused. "I can carry eight. Ten crowns a head, round trip, and you bring your own food. If you gotta eat ours, it's extra. The time in Shalda will be extra, too—a crown a day per head, plus you cover any late fees I catch when we do arrive in Borkalis."

  Crowns flying like autumn leaves, Cort thought. I'm in the wrong sehking business.

  "Fair," Iggy said. "Half when we leave, half when we get back?"

  "Fair's fair," Lucius agreed. "Oh—when you do get where you're going, how long will your business ashore take?"

  Iggy gave him a blank stare, then shrugged and glanced at Ben. Ben looked at Cort. Cort spread his hands. Come on, you lot. I'm just along for the ride here.

  Seeing no help, Iggy went on. "I . . . we're not really sure. We're going to be looking for something. Two weeks?"

  Cort shrugged. Ben nodded.

  "Two weeks," Iggy confirmed.

  Lucius shook Iggy's hand. "Two weeks it is."

  vii. Lyseira

  She woke in a strange tent. For a few blissful seconds, as the birds sang outside and the wind tickled the fabric, she couldn't remember where it was or why she was in it. Then, like successive punches to the gut, it all came back.

  Seth had killed Syntal.

  Harth had been burned by her healing miracle.

  Ninety-seven Kesprey had followed her to their deaths in the battle of Colmon.

  The Mal'shedaal.

  And then the crowning strike, the matter at hand: Revenia was alive somewhere in the foothills of the Tears, and they were out looking for Her.

  Everything bad in the world heaved itself into place against her temples, pressing down with the weight of a mountain. It was a wonder she had ever managed to get to sleep in the first place.

  She sighed and dragged herself to her feet. Pushed through the tent flaps to see Helix sitting on a rock staring at the dregs of the campfire.

  No, she corrected herself. Not staring. He can't stare anymore. Another horror, this one already old enough that her morning recitation hadn't even included it. She thought about going to him, trying to bridge the distance between them . . . but the gulf was too wide, the pain too fresh. He had been quiet on the journey, keeping away from Seth and her alike. She didn't want to lose him—they'd been friends too long—but she wasn't sure there was anything she could do to prevent it. And though she hated to admit it, if losing Helix's friendship was the price for seeing an end to Syntal's massacres, she would pay it.

  "Tell me again," Roddert said from behind her. He was one of four chanters Harth and Ben had assembled to accompany them, under the assumption that facing Revenia without any chanters would be suicide. It was a nice consideration, but Lyseira was pretty sure if Revenia was half as strong as Ethaniel and Lar'atul made her out to be, Harth and Ben's chant
er students wouldn't make much of a difference.

  "About the mist?" Seth confirmed.

  "Yeah."

  "When Kai killed Her, it shot out the window. It was drifting up from the altar, streaming into her eyes—then it went out the window."

  "So he might have been too late," Roddert said. "If the mist was her soul, maybe she reformed down here instead."

  "But then why wouldn't the Mal'shedaal have sensed her?" said Jeconah, the other Arwah. "I thought they could tell when she was in trouble the first time."

  They had already been over this a dozen times, chasing themselves in circles. Lyseira's appetite for speculation had soured days ago.

  "We'll find out today," Helix said as Seth and the chanters walked past her. He sounded as exasperated as she felt. "There's only one village left. It has to be the right one." He still sounded certain, even though they'd been through four other towns already and Lyseira had overheard the King's men muttering about a goose chase more than once.

  "And you'll know it's Her because―"

  Helix cut Roddert off. "Because of the mark on Her shoulder. I've told you this. Two crescent moons, back to back, with a line between them. Seth and I both saw it. Sehk. How many times do we have to go over it? You want me to draw it again, too?"

  "Just being careful, son." Roddert was older, nearly as old as Ben. He could wield the war chants from the third wardbook, but didn't seem to have a lot of aptitude beyond that.

  Helix waved him off.

  They came to the last village, Korla, just after highsun: a scattered collection of little houses, nestled between and around the hills. It reminded Lyseira painfully of Southlight, with a few small shops that people mostly ran out of their homes and children playing hide'n'sneak in the grass. One of them saw her and stopped, her jaw hanging wide, before running off calling for her mom. Lyseira smiled, remembering her own childhood. Then she realized she was the intruder now, the priest coming to town with a host of the King's men, and the smile died.