The answer was the same as always: silence. It settled into her stomach like a black pit.
Even silence might mean something, a dogged voice insisted. In years past, she would've gone to The Abbot for help deciphering it, or her mother.
They were both gone now.
"M'sai," Harth said. The murmur of a crowd echoed from the twisting alley ahead. "Make it quick. Helix, you stay with me for clothes and blankets. For Akir's sake, keep that bag close. You blink and someone will nick it. Seth and Lyseira, pick up food and supplies. And keep your eyes open for a packhorse. And tents."
Lyseira glared. Harth pretended he knew what he was doing, but she suspected he just enjoyed acting the boss. She was sick of being bossed around by a street thief. "If you get the horse, let us know," she said. "Otherwise, we'll find one."
The bazaar was a half-dozen blocks' worth of fish and vegetable stands, leatherworkers and blacksmiths, guides for hire, map-sellers, and as far as Lyseira could tell, everything else anyone could possibly try to sell. Hawkers crowded the streets, stamping their feet in the cold and blowing into their hands, and there were more Bahiri than she had ever seen in one place in her life.
Unlike the open square she'd been expecting, the shop stands were mostly set up between the buildings: sagging ruins that might have been living apartments once. It was filthy and loud, but at least it was enclosed. The idea of shopping in a wide open square had made her nervous.
"There." Seth nodded at a vegetable stand. They drifted that way, the crowd jostling them like shifting ocean currents.
"Seth," Lyseira said. "Do you think we did the right thing?"
He answered as though he'd been waiting for this question for weeks. "I don't think Helix killed Matthew," he said, his eyes navigating the crowd. "I don't understand why they sentenced him. I think you're probably right, that the Fatherlord should be told. There are some bad apples in the Church sometimes, though it's rare."
He didn't answer the question. "Why did you come with me? It could cost you everything."
"It probably has." His face was unreadable. "When I go back... I'll be a traitor."
"Then why?" she pressed.
"You asked me. You needed me." He flicked his eyes toward her, once. "You're probably the only person I wouldn't have refused."
But why? she wanted to demand. Why, when I had no place in the Church and you had no reason to believe me? She wanted him to say he had faith in her, that he thought she could hear the voice of God. She wanted to know that he didn't spend his nights wondering if she had lost her mind.
She wanted more than he could give.
They joined the milling throng around the vegetable stand, inching closer as the front row of people moved on.
"It doesn't matter now." He surprised her; she'd thought he was done talking about it. "We're here. We've made our choices and we can't give them back. You're worried about Mom?"
His casual concern pricked her. Her eyes welled, the pit in her stomach suddenly doubling. She nodded, fighting to keep her composure.
He took her hand; squeezed it once. "Me too."
They waited, alone in an ocean of people. She closed her eyes and focused on the feel of his hand in hers. With the skill of long years of practice, she wrestled her doubts down.
When she opened her eyes, something had snagged his gaze. At the far end of the street, a couple of young men were harassing a homeless man beneath a red awning. They were arguing. One of them shoved the vagabond to the ground.
"I'll be right back," Seth said.
She kept his hand. "Does it matter? It's nothing to do with us." The words were like grease on her tongue. They made her queasy.
Mind your brother's sin, The Abbot whispered. In all things, seek the righteous path. The girl she had been in Southlight wouldn't have hesitated to help a stranger. But now...
Now she was someone else.
Well for rev'naas' sake, we can't help everyone in Keldale, some part of her retorted. It sickened her to know the voice was her own.
"It'll be our problem if they attract the guards. Wait here."
He pushed his way through the crowd. She went after him.
"Enough," he called.
The thugs snapped their heads toward him. The bum curled into a ball on the ground.
"Leave him alone." Seth's voice was like distant thunder, echoing with threats. They broke and ran.
Seth approached the beggar, still huddled on the ground. "Are you well?" His tone was flat, devoid of empathy. "Did they harm you?"
"My knee..." Even from behind her brother, Lyseira caught the stink of sour ale. "I think they broke my knee."
Seth scowled. "Let me see it. Hold still." He reached toward the man's leg, feeling along it for signs of injury. "You're well."
"No, my other leg—please, the Church won't heal it without a donation."
Seth grimaced. "You have your life. Be happy with that."
The beggar's eyes trained on something behind them. Lyseira turned and saw three Preservers stepping out of a nearby alley.
Her pulse doubled. She dropped her eyes, trying to look inconspicuous, and willing her brother to do the same. They have no reason to talk to us. Just turn and go back to the stall. They'll walk right—
"Seth Rulano," one of the Preservers marveled. "In Keldale."
She looked up. They know him? Fear thrashed in her stomach, screaming for her to run. It might not mean anything. We might be all right.
Seth straightened and gave a short nod. "Dessic."
The man who had spoken was the tallest of the three, nearly a head taller than Seth, and whip-thin. "You're not marked."
"I've yet to pass the trial. Master Retash sent me to my sister to study."
Dessic absorbed this. His companions exchanged looks.
"You would blame your desertion," Dessic finally said, "on your master?"
"I didn't desert," Seth said evenly.
"Yes, you have. Master Jokan has said it."
"Master...?" Seth blinked, confusion stealing into his eyes. "No, Retash—"
"Retash has been detained," Dessic said, "for treachery of his own. Even if you spoke truth, nothing he's done could pardon you." He held out a hand. "Come. Master Jokan requires your return."
"Detained?" Seth's eyes darted. "For what?"
"That's not for me to say." Dessic gave a sharp nod to his companions. They fanned out, moving to flank Seth.
"Dessic," Seth said, taking a step backwards, "you misunderstand."
Dessic cocked his head as if he would listen—then skipped forward and leveled a kick into Seth's gut that buckled him like a rag doll.
"Seth!" The shout burst, unbidden, from Lyseira's lungs. Dessic glanced at her as if taking note of a bug.
The other two Preservers grabbed Seth's arms, twisted them behind his back. With a short jump, Dessic snapped a kick at Seth's chin.
But this time Seth was ready. He ducked forward and under the kick, surprising the attackers who had his arms. One of them lurched forward. Dessic's kick took him in the neck. He collapsed, gurgling.
Bind them, Lyseira thought. I can Bind them, like Marcus did to Helix. She called to Akir, frantic.
He ignored her.
The second of Dessic's companions still had Seth's other arm. Seth chopped at his hand, precisely as a viper, and the Preserver's wrist shattered. He recoiled.
He didn't scream.
God help us, Lyseira begged. Please, damn You, what did You send me here for? We need You!
Dessic slid sideways. Seth moved to follow him. The Preserver he'd turned his back on, the one with the broken wrist, spun into a kick—
—and fell, a dagger suddenly sprouting from his neck.
Dessic danced backward. His companions were dead. His eyes flashed calculations.
Then he crouched and leapt backward, fifteen feet up, to land out of sight on the building behind him.
Seth tensed as if to launch himself after him.
"S
eth!"
Helix's voice. Lyseira's stomach sank. Get out of here! she wanted to shout to him. Get back! They haven't seen you!
Harth appeared from nowhere, his cloak swirling. "What in Hel happened?" he hissed. "I told you—sehk." His eyes lit on the body of the Preserver Dessic had kicked. "How many?"
"Three," Seth answered. "You said they never came here."
Harth held up a hand. Quiet.
"I saw this," Helix said. "I saw this! They know we're here, they're coming, we have to get out!"
The crowd was murmuring.
"...the Church..."
"...attacked those Preservers..."
"...after that boy..."
Someone broke from the crowd, headed for an alley. Lyseira watched him run, wondering what it meant.
"This way," Harth snapped. "Now!"
Lyseira caught a glimpse of one of the dead Preservers, facedown, his blood spreading between the cobblestones like a branching river.
Then they were running.
Chapter 15
i. Iggy
He dreamt that he woke to the sight of a weed, forcing its way between the cobblestones and drinking in the sunlight. It was a picture of defiance. It was life in the grave.
Then he woke to a kick in the back.
"Up," a man barked. "Out of here."
He scrambled to his feet, the alley spinning as he shed his sleep. The man who'd kicked him grunted and disappeared into the swirling eddies of people in the square.
Iggy put his back to the wall, trying to collect himself as nausea swirled in his stomach. He closed his eyes to get away from the city. But even with his eyes closed, the smoke scratched inside his nose. The wall behind him bulged with death.
A night of sleep had done nothing to change his—What? Hallucinations? Revelations? He had hurled the cover off a bed to find it crawling with maggots, and no one could see them but him.
Help. It was an empty plea, aimed at no one. Please help. He would go mad like this. Perhaps he already had.
And then he heard her pulse, steady and warm and certain. He clung to it like a child that had found his lost mother. Even here, she had said. Even here.
He was weeping.
You've lost your mind, some distant voice said. It was numb with disbelief, marveling as it watched him unravel. Do you even remember what's happening? Harth told you to stay inside, and you slept in the alleyway. Harth asked you to lay low, and you made a stranger kick you awake.
He had to get back upstairs. Angbar and Syntal were probably worried about him. But at the thought of going inside again, a wild scream thrashed in his belly. He couldn't face it.
Face what? the voice demanded, incredulous. Brick and fire wood? What is wrong with you?
I don't know, he answered. I don't know.
The wolves had called the road a scar, and now he understood what they'd meant. If I spoke to them now, they would recognize me. Let me in. I could sleep between the trees. He wanted that. In that instant he wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything.
Shhh, his mother whispered, hushing him through the wind. Shhh. All in time. Your friends are worried.
He sucked at the air, trying to calm himself. It tasted of filth and ash.
Even here.
He gathered his courage and turned back to the inn, slogging through madness.
~ ~
The common room was gorged with human bodies, the air rancid with the stink of burning. He marched through it as if wading through mud, bounded up the steps two at a time, and threw the door open without knocking.
Syntal started. "Iggy!"
"We thought you were caught! Sehk, where were you?" Angbar hissed, jumping to his feet.
"I just... needed some air." It sounded flimsy, even to him. "I wasn't feeling well." He wasn't ready to explain further. Even if he had been, he wasn't sure he could.
"Were you outside all night?" Angbar pressed, incredulous. "You must have frozen half to death—"
"I'm well," Iggy snapped. "Forget it happened." Angbar fell silent, his face painted with questions. Iggy glared at the hearth. "But we're not keeping a fire. When this wood is gone, don't throw in any more."
Angbar gaped. "Are you mad?"
"I don't know."
"Iggy," Syntal said, "It's freezing. We need the heat—"
"It won't be that cold today. And you won't need the heat. There are three of us in here. This room is so small we'll keep it warm just by being here.
"No fire."
He took a seat by the window, ignoring their stares and trying not to shake.
~ ~
He dozed.
The room stayed warm. His thoughts rich with dreaming, he realized that the air was doing it. Comforting them. Why wouldn't it, after he had stopped the fire? They could be at peace, nature and man. His mother knew this. Maybe he could learn it too.
An argument in the alley woke him. His dreaming clarity blurred, dissolving into absurdity. The room was warm because there were three people in it, all the windows were shut tight, and the sun was up. The air didn't care whether or not any wood was burning.
For the love of winter, he reprimanded himself, it's air.
Syntal and Angbar were sitting on the bed, busying themselves with Syntal's spellbook. Iggy glanced at the sky. It was nearly highsun. They must've been working at it for hours.
Syntal was lecturing Angbar. She sounded exasperated. Iggy ignored her and let his eyes drag closed. He was drifting off again when he heard her say something about a pulse.
"What?" He started awake, the word jumping from his lips, and looked at her.
"I was talking to Angbar," Syntal said.
"M'sai, but what did you say?"
"She said I shouldn't be trying to figure out what the words mean, I should just be listening for the Pulse." Angbar shrugged. "I'm listening, I just don't hear anything."
"You can hear the heartbeat?" The words were out before he could stop them, before he could think about what they admitted.
Syntal looked at him as if he'd appeared from thin air. "Sometimes," she said slowly. "Only when I'm chanting. You..." She peered at him. "Why? Have you felt it?"
Yes, he wanted to say, remembering the heartbeat he'd heard in the alleyway. Sehk, I thought I was going mad. But he swallowed the words. They were too dangerous.
Instead, he stood up. "For how long?"
Syntal drew herself up. Her eyes said, You didn't answer me. "Five years? Six? You've never heard me talk about it with Angbar before?"
Syntal can hear it? What does that mean? What does that make me? "I just never heard you."
"Well, sehk," Angbar said. "Maybe you should try, Iggy. You'll probably have better luck than me." He glanced at Syntal. "Though I think I might have felt something that last time. Just a little twinge."
Syntal waved him off. "You've had all morning." She nodded toward the book, sitting on the bed between Angbar and herself. Her eyebrows quirked a question at Iggy.
Iggy grunted. "No thanks."
"If you've felt it," Syntal said evenly, "you want more. I can show you."
She really has heard it, he knew at once. And she's right. I can either do it now or later, but I have to do it. I have to know. He forced himself to shrug, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. "Nothing better to do."
Syntal pointed at the book. "There are words here, in First Tongue. Can you read First Tongue?"
"No," he said, relieved and disappointed at the same time.
"I'll read them for you, then. I'll speak them, and you repeat them. They make a pattern, a beat. That beat will become the Pulse. They help you to hear it."
"M'sai," he said. "I'll give it a try."
He knelt next to the bed, and the heartbeat returned.
He didn't just hear it; he felt it. It was in the air. It was in his blood. It was even in the dead, nailed wood.
(Even here)
It was wild and free, a heartbeat echoing his own. Hearing it was like rou
nding the corner to find an old friend. He felt a relieved smile pulling at his lips.
Syntal hadn't said anything. He raised a hand, signaling her to leave off, when she spoke.
"Moshka do vér te." The words scraped against the Pulse he was feeling, their accents falling in the wrong place. "Go ahead," she said. "Moshka do vér te."
"Moshta...?" It wasn't what she had said. The words had their own rhythm, and it wasn't the Pulse's rhythm. He knew; he could feel the Pulse beating a counterpoint to his own heart.
"No, moshka do vér te."
The Pulse was a symphony. Her words were a cacophony of drums, banged out by a child. Hush, he wanted to say. I can't hear it when you do that.
"Listen. I'll say the whole set of mantras a few times so you can get a feel for the cadence.
"Moshka do vér te. Satchka se shér le. Paela sen ér re. Voran sah rér de."
Her voice screeched; it was fingernails on a slate. Stop, he wanted to say, but found himself too aghast to speak.
"Moshka do vér te. Satchka se shér le. Paela sen ér re. Voran sah rér de."
The Pulse could be quick or slow, agitated or calm—just like his own heart. Its tempo changed with its mood. But Syntal's voice was unceasing and mechanical, the words growing steadier with each repetition.
To his horror the Pulse shifted, just slightly, to accommodate them. Its color and beauty fled as the tempo changed, leaving only grey.
"Moshka do vér te," she droned. "Satchka se shér le."
Her voice was obscene. It thrust between the Pulse's accents like rape. The symphony dissolved into shrieks of discord, matching Syntal's demands so that its suffering would ease.
Her face lit with joy.
"There," she said. "I can feel it. Can you?"
"Stop." Iggy clenched his eyes shut, tears burning behind them.
"I have." Her voice was a monotone of rapture. "Once you can feel the Pulse, you don't need to keep saying the words. I could chant right now. This is what Lar'atul called Ascension. Look."
Syllables tumbled from her mouth. She put her finger to the bedspread and drew a mark. The spell seized the cloth and violated it, forcing it to shed light.
Children of a Broken Sky (Redemption Chronicle Book 1) Page 26