In the Shadow of the Rook (The Sons Incarnate Book 1)

by JDL Rosell

  He couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Of course women were perfect in Amodism; how else would they rationalize an entirely female priesthood? All female except for the old corpsefucker that put me under, of course.

  Though the Senescent’s eyes tightened, she continued as if she hadn’t seen. “The Daughters rushed to the aid of the younger brother, and together they drove back the Firstborn and his Void to half the Sky, and from the World entirely. We see them as the moon and the stars, holding their eldest brother at bay for all the long hours of Night.

  “But A’Qed is only tenuously bound, as we of the Font know too well. War, storms, famine, hate, human frailty—he extends his power into humankind, especially into men, and spreads his darkness far and wide. And someday, someday soon, he will return to spread it into the very World itself. Thus, we take as our mantra: Keep fear; the Void is ever near. Take heart; the Mother’s never far.”

  High Matron Ada infused no passion into even these last foreboding words, though they were the proselytizing call of the Font. Erik didn’t wonder why. Becoming a nekromist was hardly conducive to religious devotion.

  “Now,” she said, “we must cleanse your body with the milk of the sea.”

  Erik’s stomach turned at that. It had been so long since he’d been to a fontary that he’d nearly forgotten the cleansing ritual. Drinking a cup of saltwater just to throw it back up didn’t sound too appealing just then. “Wait a moment,” he found himself saying. “I have a question. About Er’Lothe’s Recarnates.”

  The Senescent had turned to dip a cup into the central basin, but at these words, she stopped. Her eyes darted to the cleaning woman, who had also grown still. “Yes?” she said, her tone brittle as cut glass.

  How to say this? “What are they? I mean, they were just ordinary people, right? But then Er’Lothe raised them from the dead and… they became what, exactly?”

  The enrobed woman twitched, and Erik almost thought her nervous. After a long pause, she answered, “You must know Sanct Eckard?”

  “Of course.”

  “He was, as you say, resurrected by the Lastborn’s hand, and given powers to bend the world to his will. It was Er’Lothe’s response to A’Qed’s dead army, to defeat them and save all of humanity from destruction. They prevailed, of course… but only at a terrible price.”

  “The moon. And the world.” He knew the stories, even if he had his doubts about their validity.

  “Yes, both were broken in the battles of the Sons Incarnate, shattered by the might of their magic and destroying their material bodies in the process.”

  “But,” Erik said, trying to get her back on track, “weren’t they both Recarnate themselves, of sorts? I mean, both were incarnated out of the bodies of men, the text says.”

  “Yes, it is true,” the Senescent said. “But is a star the same as the sun?”

  “Well, no—”

  High Matron Ada held up a hand. “Recarnation is an echo of incarnation. It is a holy thing and done by the hands of our holy Lastborn, but it pales in comparison.”

  Erik still felt unsatisfied, hardly learning anything new. “Well, has anyone become Recarnated since then?” He could barely believe he was asking so ardently, and of the person most likely to be the Magpie. Yet eagerness was making him imprudent. He was hungry for any chance, any scrap of hope.

  It was all dashed away with a word. “No. Some have claimed to be so, and some have faked miracles to seem so, but no man since that aeon of gods has been Recarnate.”

  Could be worse, Erik thought. It could all be an exaggerated legend. Oh wait.

  The Senescent studied him, and even though he could only see her eyes, she seemed to purse her lips. “Though,” she started hesitantly, “The Sons Incarnate foretells of the gods’ hands forging their servants again, when the time of their return is nigh…” She again glanced at the washerwoman, who had returned to the windows. “With nekros returned, perhaps Recarnates are not far behind.”

  Erik stared with furrowed brows, hardly daring to hope. “You think… they’re coming back?”

  Before she could answer, the enrobed woman slapped a hand to the back of her neck, slipping it inside of the hood, and Erik caught a glimpse of the pale skin on her palm as her sleeve slid up. She gasped and slumped, leaning back and tipping the basin, spilling saltwater down her robes.

  Erik stood abruptly. “Are you well, High Matron?” You can’t be unwell. I still need my answers.

  She held up a hand, steady and unwavering, even as she ground her teeth in pain. “Leave.”

  Erik hesitated. He looked to the old woman, but she had continued scrubbing at a window, moving up and down hard, seemingly unaware of her superior’s pain. “But you seem—”

  “Leave.” The whisper was so harsh it could have been a scream. He met her eyes and saw it there in those closed lids, holding all their pain inside.

  He fled, his neck prickling, and only when he reached the doors did he look back. The old relict continued working, oblivious to everything, including the Senescent folding to the ground and twitching as she held her neck. She could have been praying to the Mother to anyone looking. Or maybe the old woman was deaf as well as blind.

  So Erik left, full of a strange mix of bewilderment, confusion, and—damn him if he didn’t recognize a bit of sorry hope.

  Twelve

  He was dumbfounded as to his next destination as he closed the doors to the chapel behind him. Surely the Senescent was the Magpie, but what did her odd behavior mean? The way she had grabbed the back of her neck and crumpled with pain… It was almost like she had a control stone lodged there. But who could have done it, and why? Could someone else be controlling the nekromist?

  Stumped by the problem, he pushed it from his mind, and focused on another realization: he was free for the moment. No longer bound to his room, he could explore Font Amode as he pleased and, with a little luck, find some leverage for his eventual negotiations with the Senescent.

  His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the clicks of wooden clogs walking down the hallway. A sister. Mouthing a curse, he looked for a hiding spot, dashing up and down the passage as the clicks grew louder and louder. He didn’t have much time.

  The small alcove almost slipped past his eyes. Rushing to it, he saw there was a small altar and rug to kneel on. No relict would interrupt a worshipper, even if it’s just a man. Or so he hoped. But there was no time for alternatives. He threw himself at the rug and bent before the wood table, forehead to the floor, his hot breath reflected back to him.

  The clicks of the clogs grew closer, closer—then they stopped just behind him. Erik didn’t move. Channeling some long-hidden false piety, he tried to look as nonthreatening as a charfur caught out of its tree.

  Finally, the clicks started back up, and the sister passed by without a word.

  His heart beat fast at the near encounter, even if the worst that could have come was a scintillating chastise and a prompt escort back to his closet of a room. But no, he had to remind himself, it was more serious than that. It’s my life on the line. Or what's left of it.

  He rose and moved from his alcove, stepping quietly now. Even as he kept his eyes open and his ears cocked for any signs of passersby, he suddenly found himself thinking about Tara. He wondered what she was up to, and whether he would run into her.

  The impish scream of a child echoed down the halls.

  He took a step back and listened, but the shriek had broken off. It only took him a moment to reason out its source: the orphanage Tara had mentioned. Erik didn’t want to be caught there if he could help it. Where there were children, caretakers were not far behind.

  But as he moved away, another shriek burst the silence, sounding as if its owner had entered his hallway. It started coming closer, and fast. He needed to get out.

  Looking around, Erik sought another cranny to hide in, or any doors to escape through, but he saw only doors at the end of a long hallway. Only one way to go—he set off running,
trying to step lightly despite the rush, as it wouldn’t help to escape sight if the child still heard him.

  The squeal grew louder, joined by a patter of feet coming closer, closer to the mouth of the hall. He pumped his legs, almost to the doors.

  Then the noises cut off just at the end of the hall. He’d been spotted.

  Slowly, he turned back and looked around, and saw a familiar, startled girl staring back at him.

  “Persey,” he said, surprised.

  The girl stared at him with wide eyes, seeming to consider what to do. To encourage her, Erik held a finger to his lips and gave a little smile, backing towards the doors, hoping she would obey.

  The girl pushed back the wisps of pale hair that had fallen in her face and grinned. Then she screamed.

  “The little imp,” Erik muttered, turning back to the doors, not intending to get caught. All too aware of the shrill grating in his ears, he pushed hard on the doors, but they wouldn’t budge.

  A woman’s voice rose beneath the shrill child’s. “Shush, Persey! I give you far too much attention without all that.”

  That voice… He stopped pushing against the locked doors and turned back to see a relict kneel next to the child. Then, the Fontwoman turned her head, following the child’s gaze, and met Erik’s eyes.

  “I should have known,” Tara said, straightening. “Don’t you have lessons to be attending?”

  He almost stepped back down the hall, but he hesitated. “I had some, but my teacher became… occupied.”

  Tara looked confused, and was about to respond, but the girl twisted away and made a dash for it. The relict was prepared for it though, and she scooped her up, and the girl giggled and flailed to run away.

  He slowly walked towards them. “Well, it’s not how I expected to see you two again, but I can’t complain too much.”

  Persey stuck out her tongue and turned her head aside. “Sorry,” Tara muttered, kneading her fingers into the girl’s side and producing a squeal. “She’s like this sometimes. Doesn’t always act her… age.”

  “Never!” the girl screamed, then burst into another fit of giggles.

  She was acting several years younger than when he last saw her. Then, she’d seemed reliable and industrious, hardly one prone to outbursts like this. But maybe it was the stress of being an orphan. She had gone through things unimaginable to Erik, even with the horrid things he’d seen. At least he had had a childhood before he’d lost his life.

  Then, there was another thing. As the relict looked down at the girl, Erik saw a gentleness settle on her face that he hadn’t yet seen on her. She’d lost two sons to lurchers, but she still had this girl. At least I didn’t know the babe I lost, he thought. He hadn’t even named the unborn kid, hadn’t even thought to, nor to even check for the sex. Somber thoughts, despite the joy of the couple before him.

  “All right, Moonfly,” Tara said, ending the tickling. “Run on back to your quarters.”

  The impish girl stuck out her tongue, but she did as she was told. A few paces off, though, she stopped and turned back. “You’re coming too?”

  “Sometime,” Tara said, waving her hand dismissively. But her face showed her true tenderness, and the girl turned around, reassured.

  He listened to the patter of the girl’s footsteps disappear down the hall as he studied a strand of Tara’s hair that had escaped from her hood. It trailed along the fringe of it, carried by the motion of Tara turning her head to look after the girl. When all sound of her had disappeared, Tara stepped closer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

  Erik blinked. “Sorry? For what?”

  Tara waved vaguely down the hallway. “She gets this way sometimes. I guess she’s just… growing up too fast.”

  “She’s had a hard life, I’m sure. You’d have to grow up fast for that. Though maybe not in every way,” he amended.

  She still looked uncomfortable, but just shook her head. “Well, anyway. You said your teacher left you? Who was it, by the way?”

  “Ah.” Erik tried to decide whether to lie or not. Though he didn’t know the rules around here, he thought it vaguely suspicious the Senescent had been teaching his lessons, the implications of which he hadn’t fully faced. Still, he liked Tara. And she might be able to tell him something of what it meant.

  “The Senescent,” he finally admitted. At her surprise, he added, “I know, I didn’t know what to make of it either. She hasn’t seemed to like me much.”

  Tara worked her mouth for a moment before finding the words. “I’ve never seen her instruct any petitioner, or even any relict. What would make her do it now, I don’t…”

  Her face suddenly scrunched up like she’d eaten a week-rotten fish, and Erik’s heart leaped into his throat. “Tara?” he asked tentatively.

  She seemed to shake herself back to alertness. “I’ve got to go. But I’ll find you later.” She turned to leave, but paused. “And if the Senescent comes to find you again, be careful. Try not to be alone with her.”

  Fear knotted his stomach and clamped his mouth shut as she departed down the same hall as Persey, and he said nothing as she turned out of sight.

  Erik, for his part, was rooted to the spot, and his mind spun with what it all meant. Tara’s reaction could only serve to confirm his suspicions. The Senescent was the nekromist he sought, and Tara knew about her. But if that were true, perhaps the waiting wasn’t his game. Perhaps this was all on her own terms, and she would advance when she saw fit, when he was least able to resist.

  He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost walked by the shadowed figure in the doorway. He jumped as he looked over and saw a woman standing there, silent and unmoving, watching him with eyes glittering from lit candles above the door. He recognized her: it was the old lady from before, who’d been washing windows and didn’t wear a veil.

  He smiled apologetically, then moved wordlessly towards his escape. But the woman spoke, and stopped him dead in his path.

  “You must belong to the Rook.”

  Thirteen

  Erik stared at her. When he could speak, he didn’t have much to say. “What?”

  Her hair was white, thinning, and frayed, and her face was marred like a clawed-up trunk. Yet there was something youthful to her as well. The lines in her face seemed shallow, not so etched as a bent crone should have, and her skin tighter than was natural. In fact, if the light hit her right, her skin seemed waxy as a candle long since lit.

  When she spoke, her voice sounded like a reed pipe left too long to the elements, warbling and nasal and out of pitch. “You aren’t deaf,” she snapped. “You heard me well enough to gape. Is it true or not? Are you the Rook’s servant?”

  “N-no,” Erik stammered, his tongue confused by all the questions he wanted to ask. “But why— How do you—?”

  “You’ve heard the name, then, at least. Bah! Like as not he’s sent you here to spy on me, make sure I’m not performing anything he would consider abominable. Like he hasn’t done worse.” The crone eyed him critically. “Mother above, but I missed it at first. You’re the whelp, I suppose.”

  The whelp? What, this Rook is supposed to have fucking bred me? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Erik said as evenly as he could manage, “and I don’t know who you are, but I’d like some straight answers about now.”

  “You would, would you?” The old relict sneered. “Very well, rookling. Follow me, and you’ll get your answers.” She hobbled through the door and down the hall without a backwards glance.

  He stared after her a moment, wondering how everything had been turned upside down so quickly. This window washer spoke with more authority than the Senescent, more authority even than the count back in Zauhn. She spoke as if everyone ought to obey. But why? Who was she?

  The realization hit him like a kick from a horse far after it should have.

  But if she’s the Magpie, Erik wondered as he started quickly after her, then what is the Senescent’s role? How
could she allow a nekromist to live in her essent? But even as he questioned it, he knew the answer. It was the same way nekromists had risen to positions of power all across District Nord of Erden Isle: cajoling, bullying, threatening, and promises of power to the right people. The Senescent was either beholden or smitten, and from the way she’d slumped to the floor in the chapel, Erik thought he knew which.

  But as he had little other choice, he followed the woman through the halls empty but for sunbeams. The passages were unfamiliar at first, but at length, they hit upon a familiar run. He had only traveled a few places in the large building: the chapel, his room, the Senescent’s quarters—

  That’s it, he thought. We’re headed to High Matron Ada’s rooms. He remembered the door that Yelfild had feared Tara would open, from which the Senescent had emerged. He felt the same fear with each step, returning to that place, imagining what lay behind the door.

  They reached the entrance to the Senescent’s quarters, and the crone barreled straight in, Erik following. She limped over to the door on the right, the simple, unadorned door. But she stopped short and looked back at him. “Before you learn anything, you must know the Mother brought you here for a reason.”

  Erik stared. He expected a nekromist, but never had he imagined a devout nekromist. “I suppose so,” he hedged.

  The crone narrowed her eyes. “‘Fidels,” she growled, as much as her high, broken voice could. “Never understand anything important.” She eyed him. “Or maybe it’s just in your blood.”

  My blood? But he didn’t get a chance to ask, for she was already speaking again.

  “As I said, all the world’s designs are crafted by the Mother. Her hand works in all of us, even the worst of us.” As she leered, Erik wasn’t sure whether she meant her or him. “And her hand works in each earthly craft, the branches of alchemy same as tailoring or cobbling.”

  Cobbling a shoe and cobbling a man—all the same, really. But he had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.