The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Boiling Waters met the coast, and in the soggy delta was an army in waiting. Nigh’jels illuminated their camp as if it were morning but in that sickly, shimmering green. Black Sands ships were moored throughout the delta, sails sweeping over their bows like the tail feathers of the great gallers. Zhulong filled a series of stables, snorting and rolling gleefully in the muck. Tents numbered in the hundreds, and lanterns hung from warrior’s hips weaved between them—fireflies at dusk. Thousands of them.

  “By Iam,” Torsten whispered.

  Another sight drew his attention: men and women of the Glass Kingdom draped in rags, weary and transporting supplies from the ships. They carried lumber and iron to forge siege weapons, spears, and bows. Black Sandsman snapped whips at their backs while they worked. It appeared not all those caught in the Shesaitju raids were sent to rest at Iam’s bosom.

  Suddenly, it made sense how the Shesaitju could have attacked so quickly after Liam’s passing without anybody spotting them on the move. They’d come from this dank, awful place where no sane soul would ever search.

  Torsten had been in charge of the kingdom’s army and security, and he’d failed. He’d been so distracted by Liam’s last days, and the Queen’s obsession with Redstar, her troubled son, and the doll, he’d allowed this force to amass in the shadow and fog. This was no army meant to pillage, raid, and burn like biting insects stirring unrest, it was the largest Torsten had seen in a decade.

  An army meant for rebellion. To bring the Glass Kingdom and everything he held dear to its knees.

  XXIII

  THE THIEF

  “What do I do? What do I do?” Whitney said to an unconscious Sora once he got her back into the priest’s cottage.

  He thought back to every experience he’d had with sickness or disease, but nothing helped. Throughout his life, those things usually led to the death of those affected. Healings were rare and, even with Wetzel’s medicine, people rarely made miraculous recoveries.

  There was no Wetzel to count on here. And even if there were, no one could find out what she’d done. As far as everyone in Bridleton was concerned, the new father performed his first miracle. The only thing worse than a knife-ear around these parts was a knife-ear practitioner of cursed and forbidden arts.

  He paced the room, occasionally glancing out the window. All the sick and injured in Bridleton were gathering for a visit with their new ‘miracle father.’ The newly-whole rancher and his son stood out front making sure no one got too close.

  “Step aside!” one man shouted at him. “You got your healing; my daughter needs hers!”

  “Don’t be so selfish!” cried another.

  Finally, Whitney had enough. He put his blindfold on and threw open the door, narrowly avoiding hitting the rancher’s son with it.

  “Enough!” Whitney bellowed. “The work of Iam is taxing, and I need to rest. Go home!”

  Murmurs erupted throughout the crowd.

  “Please, Father,” said an old lady as she stepped forward. She hunched over, using a cane to steady herself. Her skin seemed like it was made of century-old parchment found in the trash. “We need a blessing from Iam.”

  “The drought was long, and the coming winter will be harsh,” said another.

  Whitney slammed the door and sunk back against it all the way to the floor.

  “You heard the father,” the rancher said through the door. “Time to go home.”

  The murmurs turned sour, and Whitney feared the rancher would be in further need of Sora’s healing if things escalated. A glance at Sora lying on the bed told him he’d be out of luck. She was breathing, but still unconscious.

  Whitney sighed in frustration. They didn’t have much time before Bridleton’s real new father would arrive. Whitney hoped Sora would be recovered by then, but it was impossible to know.

  So much for working with a partner. It’ll be the end of me.

  Two townsfolk exchanged heated words outside, a fistfight inevitable. Bridleton seemed happy, but like any small, meaningless place toiling under the boot of a despot like Constable Darkings, they were a powder-keg waiting to blow.

  Whitney picked himself up off the floor, then moved to Sora’s side. The bed’s dressings were soaked with sweat. She’d stopped convulsing, and it looked like a bit of color was returning to her cheeks.

  “Come on Sora,” he whispered. “Hurry up.”

  He fixed her pillow, then returned to the front door with his priest garb back on. Sunlight beat against his face and the crowd hushed as the door opened again. The rancher and another man had their hands on each other’s collars and were ready to exchange blows, but stopped at the sight of him.

  Whitney knew he needed to stall them while Sora was recovering. If the town burned itself to the ground, she’d be caught in it.

  “Your name again?” Whitney asked the rancher.

  “Pherry,” he replied.

  “Bring them next door to the chapel, Pherry, and I’ll convene with them momentarily.”

  The door shut again. Whitney ensured Sora was adequately tucked in and comfortable, then made sure he looked pious enough before exiting the cottage through the back door, which led directly into the chapel’s altar.

  By Glass Kingdom standards, the church was quaint. But compared to any other building in the town, save for the constable’s mansion, it was a palace. The vaulted ceiling was framed with thick, wood cross beams, and painted with scenes from scripture. Iam’s gift of sunlight to humanity, which thrust them out of darkness, his molding of the first human, and, of course, the God Feud—that terrible war of legend where Iam had to watch as his brethren slaughtered each other out of selfishness, and was left alone with Pantego after banishing the One Who Remained.

  The Eye of Iam hung against the back wall, surrounded by stained glass, just above a raised dais upon which a golden podium—one worth more than most of these humble folks would have made in a lifetime—stood.

  The doors opened, and people flooded the room, filling the long, hard pews. Whitney quickly lowered his blindfold before anyone saw him. Aside from the occasional groan or the wailing of a baby, they remained quiet as they sat in hopeful anticipation.

  Whitney surveyed their many faces. Even with his vision obscured he could see how coated they were with grime. Elderly, children, the maimed and the broken; they all stared at him as if he’d brought rain to the desert lands in the far east. It was then he realized he’d never paid attention to a sermon in his life. He’d stolen gold-clad Eyes of Iam from plenty of churches across Pantego but never listened.

  Poor saps... Came here for guidance and instead found me.

  “Children of...” He had to pause to clear his throat and properly affect his voice. “Children of Iam. Long has the world stood and longer still it shall remain. The remaining of this world will be long, and it will stand.”

  Good one, Whitney.

  He hoped the over-zealous inflections he used to punctuate every sentence would distract the people from his improvised drivel.

  “We work and toil, the land itself bringing pain upon its back,” he said. “Pantego is no easy place, far less, Bridleton!”

  Many of the townsfolk nodded and whispered their agreement, which started to give him confidence. He knew that was probably a bad thing, but he always acted at his finest when he had a captive audience.

  He took a few steps closer to the people until a man in the front pew coughed so hard he could hear the phlegm gurgling. He cringed, making no effort to hide it. The man appeared about ready to keel over.

  “I—uh—Iam sees you!” Whitney exclaimed. “His Vigilant Eye is upon you, yet you seek His hand? What good then, is a hand without an eye? And what eye has no face? Seek not His hand, but His face! He looks down upon these sick and hurting with compassion, but not all can be set free of their afflictions!”

  More whispers, less of them agreeing this time.

  “Why him?” a man shouted, pointing to the rancher.

  “Is it
for any one of us to question the ways of Iam?” Whitney said. “Are His thoughts not deeper than what we can contrive? Allow His peace to wash over you, children. Whether healed on this plane or the next, we shall all bask in His eternal peace.”

  Someone threw a hunk of bread at the dais. The crumbs peppered Whitney’s robe. He wondered what kind of impoverished dullard would waste good food because they thought they were deserving of a miracle, then recalled all the awful people he’d met throughout his years traveling the realm.

  “Wait! Wait!” Whitney shouted. “You misunderstand! You shall all receive your healing!”

  The glares of his onlookers softened, though many brows remained furrowed. He needed to keep them happy just a short while longer until he and Sora could hit their mark and disappear. Then they’d be some other charlatan’s problem.

  Sure, his visage would don another wanted poster in a place which he’d never return, but he was featured in about as much artwork throughout Pantego as there was in Yarrington Cathedral. What would be the harm in one more?

  “Once a day, come one at a time after midday,” Whitney said. “Until all are healed. My friend, here,” he pointed to the rancher, “will schedule your visits based upon need.”

  The rancher nodded.

  “I will do all I can to bring Iam’s benevolent mercy upon Bridleton, where it has been lacking so long!” Whitney pronounced. “Have patience, and you will all be rewarded. Now please, go, I need my rest.” He performed the circling of his eye and turned to walk away, and that was when the front doors of the chapel swung open.

  In the entrance stood a proper priest of Iam, thinning hair as white as the robes he wore, his face weathered by time and study. Like Wren the Holy, he didn’t bother covering his seared, useless eyes, his vow of sightlessness was laid bare for all the world to see. A cane topped with the Eye of Iam helped him move about.

  The two worthless Glass soldiers who had been watching the town’s entry flanked him, swords resting atop open palms. All three looked like they’d just stepped in steaming shog.

  “Father, uh...” Whitney paused. “You’re just in time.”

  He bolted for the back door and burst into his cottage to find Nauriyal hovering over a waking Sora.

  “What the yig are you doing in here?” Whitney snapped as he turned to lock the door.

  “Please,” she said. “I’m here to help.” She lifted Sora’s arm so she could get her sleeve on. Sora stared at Whitney as she accepted the aid, her lips trembling, silent.

  “How did you know I was here?” Nauriyal asked.

  “Never mind that,” Whitney said. “How did you get in here?”

  She didn’t press him any further as she waved a key over her shoulder with one hand as the other continued its work. “Daddy has a key to every building in the town.” Her features darkened. “You both seem so nice. You have to leave this place before it’s too late, Father.”

  “Trust me, I know. The real fath—” Whitney caught himself. If she’d called him that, it meant she didn’t know the truth yet. He was glad he didn’t take a moment to remove his blindfold. The real father must have been led straight to the chapel by those two goons in front of Bridleton. That meant Whitney was short on time and severely lacking allies.

  “A bad feeling struck me when I met your dad,” he said. “As if Iam Himself were issuing a warning.”

  A sudden pounding came from the chapel-side door behind him, and he knew it would be only moments before they were at the front door as well. He rushed over to help Nauriyal.

  “Open up in the name of the Glass, father,” the fat soldier from the town entry said. His sarcasm was obvious, but luckily Nauriyal didn’t pick up on it.

  “Why help us?” Whitney asked.

  “Like I said, you seem like nice people,” Nauriyal replied. “My father has terrorized this place long enough. Do you know how many priests have mysteriously died since he became constable?”

  Whitney didn’t respond, only packed his and Sora’s bags—careful to grab the daggers he’d hidden when they’d first arrived. He placed Sora’s arm around his neck to lift her. She winced and tried to whisper something.

  “Six,” Nauriyal answered for him. “Six priests over the past two years.”

  “It’s about to be seven if we don’t get out of here,” Whitney said. “Those men outside, they think I did something wrong.”

  “I know. Word about your miracle healing reached my father’s ears. Miracles like that don’t fly around here. No one is allowed to be more respected than him.”

  A grin touched Whitney’s lips. He thought better of it and cursed under his breath. If Darkings felt threatened by a miracle of Iam, that meant his ruse had worked flawlessly. It wasn’t his fault the man was a self-conscious prick, or that the real priest decided to arrive ahead of schedule. It was a perfect storm of plans going sideways, but that didn’t mean they weren’t planned to perfection.

  “There’s a horse out back for you,” Nauriyal said. “I’m tired of watching him ruin good people.”

  “I won’t ask again!” the fat soldier shouted, slamming on the chapel-side door a few more times.

  Then another knock came at the front door, causing Whitney to nearly drop Sora as he spun.

  “Open up, Gorenheimer,” said an angry voice belonging to the one-eyed, bigot guard he and Sora had met guarding the constable’s house. “Mr. Darkings would like to speak with you about what happened at that ranch. Now!”

  Yep, a perfect storm.

  Enemies battering at the gates from all angles, each blaming Whitney for something else. He’d been caught in pincers like this before, but usually by two women.

  “What’s going on,” Sora said blearily. “Whitney?”

  He was too frantic to be excited to hear her voice again. “It’s fine Sora.” He studied the room for another way out. There was a window, but it was high, and there was no way she’d be able to make it out in her state. The front door was the best option. Ram it open hard, knock the guard back, and make a run for the horse.

  More clatter came from both doors of the cottage. Whitney looked to Nauriyal. “You have been very kind,” he said. “Iam will not forget, and neither will I.”

  The girl smiled meekly, then bowed and traced her eyes. Whitney almost forgot to return the gesture but offered a halfhearted version that would never have passed in Yarrington. Again, she took no notice. Whitney checked his hold on Sora and moved for the front door. Nauriyal stopped him in his tracks.

  “When Father finds out, he’s going to kill me,” she said.

  Whitney stopped and turned.

  Sora groaned. “Leave it alone,” she whispered.

  Whitney ignored her. He took a few steps and kicked the table beside the bed. The old wood hit the floor and snapped in two. Nauriyal jumped back.

  “What are you doing?” she yelped.

  “Get on the floor and make it look like you’ve been punched,” he said.

  Her brow furrowed. “You’re a priest. You wouldn’t—”

  “Trust me, your father will believe it.”

  “I’ve never been punched... I... I don’t know.”

  “Just lay down and groan. Look, I’d do it for you, but I wouldn’t want to damage such a pretty face.”

  Nauriyal’s cheeks momentarily went pink, until a realization struck the color away. “Wait, how do you know what my face looks li—”

  Sora suddenly lashed out with her fist, catching Nauriyal on the chin. The young woman slammed into the wall before toppling over onto the bed.

  Whitney stood, stunned.

  “You’re welcome,” Sora said in Nauriyal’s direction. “If I had to hear any more of you two I was going to puke.”

  Whitney threw off his blindfold and gawked at her. “How in Elsewhere did you learn to hit like that?” he asked. The poor, young woman was completely limp, the side of her face red and already swelling.

  “I learned a lot after you left. Now let’s do the s
ame.”

  Whitney regarded the motionless heap that was Nauriyal, then circled his eyes one last time. Sora elbowed him in the ribs, spurring him to help her toward the front door. It appeared much of her former strength had returned, as if Father Gorenheimer had performed his second miracle.

  They paused in front of the door and drew some deep breaths.

  “Ready?” Whitney asked.

  Sora grunted her agreement.

  Whitney quietly unhinged the door’s bolt lock and counted. At three, they threw all their weight against it. The door swung open as they burst through, sending the guard sprawling through the mud. Another of the constable’s cronies froze between trying to decide whether to help his comrade or give chase until the former barked the orders to seize them, mouth filled with dirt.

  They were too late. Nauriyal’s horse was hitched right around the corner, just as promised. Whitney gave Sora a boost onto the saddle then followed her up. One of the constable’s goons grabbed his leg and earned a boot to the face, then Whitney snapped the reins, and they took off.

  A thunk followed a zip and Whitney turned to see an arrow quavering, the whole head buried in the wood of the wall where they’d just been. The one-eyed guard stood, bow in hand.

  “Shooting at a priest?” Whitney said. “Shame on you!” He led the horse around a few wooden hovels to avoid the man’s aim.

  “You’re still going with that?” Sora answered.

  “Lesson three,” he shouted. “Never surrender the grift until the grift is done!”

  Sora snorted and said, “There are at least a dozen more coming down the hill!”

  Whitney glanced right to see the silhouette of the constable’s mansion painted against the failing sun. On his left, the real priest and the other thugs rounded the far side of the church. Enemies closing in from every angle. Even without horses, the guards gained on them. The winding roads of Bridleton didn’t allow his horse to build up much speed. He’d have to lose them in the woods outside of town.

  “Think he pays well?” Whitney asked. An arrow bore into the wall of a house as they skirted by, just missing. “I bet he pays well.”