The steep ascent made her calves burn, but the spires of Qiltyn were a splendid sight when they reached the top. She tried not to stare as they moved past them, but the moonslit outlines of Qiltyn’s numerous buildings seduced her. Impressively, the Lanserim restrained from gaping. Maybe we will get through this.
As they approached the doors, Vesperi noticed a slumped shape on a stone dais inside a ring of bushes. She tugged on Lorne’s arm. With no priests about, she risked it and raised her eyes to Serra’s. A simple shake of her head confirmed it was safe. No victim of the claren, then, or if it was, they had moved on.
“That’s the feasting table,” Lorne whispered, moving closer to the display. “The Guj has enemies tied to it when the whim strikes him. Sometimes they are dead, sometimes not. The pigeons from the roost peck at the deserving soul for days, until there is nothing left but a fading stench. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told. I have never seen someone on it before.”
The stench was certainly present, strong enough for Vesperi to guess the man had been there over a week. But birds had left no pockmarks where his robes had fallen away. She grimaced as she lifted his head. His lifeless eyes and the thin ring of white hair around his balding head revealed someone she had not thought of in many years, since before she left for the convent: Adver Garadin, her father’s former priest.
“You know him.” A familiar hand grasped hers—Janto’s. What is he doing, coming near me so close to the Hall? She almost cursed him, but the gesture was sweet, if misplaced. She cared nothing for Garadin. The man had been an incredible dullard. That the Guj had not killed him years ago surprised her.
“Yes, he used to work with my father.”
Janto gave her hand a squeeze then slid back into his place in the group so swiftly, she thought she imagined the warmth where his fingers had been.
Lorne started back toward the entrance, and she followed on his heels, not sparing Garadin a second glance. He had never shown her the courtesy of one.
The doors opened wide enough for two to enter side-by-side. Inside were high stone walls freshly painted white and lit torches on every column. It was a place of exposure. Fewer advers congregated in the Hall than servants on a typical evening in Sellwyn Manor, maybe two dozen of them. Each covered their faces with some form of cloth or metal. That explained the small numbers. They had been attacked. Yet Serra did not cough. If the claren were there, she would see them.
Vesperi reached for her scarf just in case, but Lorne caught her hand, silencing her with a stern look.
“Only if forced,” he cautioned.
All eyes turned to their group, but Lorne did not acknowledge the priests. Advers outranked noblemen socially, but noblemen did not show it, one of Medua’s unspoken rules. Lorne strode confidently forward, and she followed suit, keeping her hand on his arm. The foyer’s silence was eerie. She had never come across an adver who could keep his mouth shut before, but maybe that explained it. Vesperi had learned ages ago that power did not automatically mean good sense. Ask Adver Garadin rotting on the feasting table. These priests were still alive. They were the smart ones.
Footsteps echoed around a corner up ahead, and a tall, thin man with a bit of a limp rounded it. He clasped his hands together as they neared, apparently sent to greet the visitors. Around his many-boned robe hung a levere shawl. This was a man who took no chances, and a rich one, too.
“Lorne Granich!” The adver pulled his scarf down while he spoke, his voice more jovial than the mood in the hall. “What brings you here?” Vesperi saw the man’s eyes briefly before averting hers toward the floor. A Deduin, and something about those eyes unnerved her. The right shade of violet colored them, but they were dim. She suppressed a shiver.
“Adver Votan.” Lorne’s voice oozed with charm. “It has been too long.” He clasped the man’s hand. “I am surprised to see so few advers here today. Did the Guj have a temper tantrum again?” He chuckled. “The last one was the talk at court for months! My father was so relieved he had stayed home that day. He would have hated to have blood splashed on his new levere medallion.”
The adver laughed as well, but Vesperi glimpsed no life in those eyes. Nor did he regard her at all, which would have offended her a few months ago. Now it was opportune.
“No, no tantrum. Tell me why you are here, Lorne. I have not heard anything of courtiers expected today. And you have this tasty morsel on your arm and so many servants following. It is most unusual. I would not want to miss whatever you have planned.”
Vesperi put on her sultriest expression at being noticed. It was her most comfortable persona, and she did not know what Lorne had come up with for their cover. He would not have told his consort his plans, so he did not acknowledge her now. Instead, he whispered it into Votan’s ear.
“Now tell me.” Lorne took her arm again. “What is this new fashion? Why do all your brothers wrap cloths around their heads? If it is a fad about to take Qiltyn, I would love being the first to don it near the king.”
“Not at all. It is a method we use to make it easier to discern Saeth’s commandments.” The adver leaned in, conspiratorially. “A waste of time, if you ask me. Saeth speaks when He wants, and we obey. We do not play at empty rituals as the Lanserim do.”
Lorne scoffed. “By Saeth’s fist, may we never be the Lanserim. The day we lie prostrate in meditation to some female god is the day we take swords to ourselves.”
The adver nodded, his expression unreadable.
“Now, if you will excuse me.” Lorne raised his elbows and waited for the adver to grant permission by returning the gesture. “I must be on my way.”
“Of course.” The adver stepped to the side, but Vesperi could feel those eyes on them until they turned the corner.
“This way,” Lorne said once assured the hall was empty. “Walk fast and discourage any more conversation. Keep that scowl on your face, Vesperi. Advers are unused to addressing disdain in women. It confuses them.”
Nothing could be easier.
CHAPTER 54
SERRA
Mandat Hall was not how she pictured it. Sellwyn Manor had felt dirtier and heavier, as though the dankness of its walls and its dense incense haze trapped silent screams. Mandat Hall was fresh and breezy by contrast, though no windows could be seen. But the thickest coat of paint could only hide so much. Horrors might not shout from its walls, but they resonated loudly from its people. She had found no claren yet, but it was obvious this place had been attacked by the fear the ryns—the advers—projected. No one should have to feel that emotion, not even in a place like this. She could not imagine what kept any of them there. Serra had not thought there anything greater to fear than a claren attack. But here they remained.
Dark, dull sheets of levere hung on the pillars like mirrors, which made using the sight tricky. Lorne kept them walking so fast, Serra was tricked by the torchlight flickering off the levere a few times. A reddish hue caught her eye in one, and she stumbled into Hamsyn, too focused on her measured breathing to realize they had stopped before a grand, wooden door with more metal panels screwed over it. It was sturdy and appeared strong. Whoever resided behind it was well protected. Lorne raised his hand to knock, and the sound echoed down the empty hall. Serra continued her measured breathing as she watched it slide open enough for the slipper-clad feet of another adver to slip through. Lorne spoke first, projecting confidence with every word and sounding as fake as Vesperi used to. The Meduans kept up such charades to survive.
The adver pulled the door open all the way, and Lorne led them through it into a narrow passageway more luxuriously decorated than the entry hall had been. She focused but saw only the extensive tapestries covering the walls. Serra could not guess what the images depicted. A giant man held a war hammer mid-swing in one. In the other, he addressed a group of men wearing the dark robes and polished bones of the advers. So much death enshrined in arras.
The adver hurried them through the corridor, entering a room at the end. I
t was bigger than the corridor, but she did not have the chance to consider how much so. A mass of red wings and overwhelming feeling of malice quelled any thoughts of caution.
“Cover now!” she yelled.
The room swarmed with claren, a dozen funneling hordes of them. All she saw were wings flapping in fast succession. To gather so many in such a tight space … they had to have been collected. This many claren would not migrate into one place on their own. It was their nature to spread out and infest as many orifices as possible.
Claren flew close, skimming her skin, but they were repelled. The fallowent’s effect? Yet they flew closer each time, seeking passage past the scent. There were so many, thicker than flies over a spoiled wine vat. The need for escape assaulted her, and Serra lunged back toward the doorway. It slammed shut before she could reach it. She threw herself at the wood, bruising her shoulder with the effort. It was shut firm. There would be no escape.
And then Hamsyn screamed. No, no, no. She had warned them, but she had been last to enter the room. Tears brimmed as she dropped to the ground, reaching for him already slumped on the floor. She took his hand, felt the warmth and weight of it for as long as she could. Janto was there, too, pressing Hamsyn’s cloth closer to his face as though he could force out what had already gone in. It was too late, but Serra did not stop him from trying. She couldn’t.
Hamsyn’s features collapsed in on themselves, a hair’s breadth at a time. Through the haze of red, she could see the moment when his brown eyes, so kind and courageous, melted into twin puddles that oozed out of the sockets. A handful of claren flew from the crevices left behind. What used to be a hand weighed no more than a feather.
The grief in Janto’s eyes was raw and angry. A low murmur drew her attention, and she prayed none of the others had opened their mouths to make the noise. It was then she realized their companions had formed a circle around them, tightening it as they inched closer together, swords drawn. When Serra and Janto stood, she saw why.
Three figures had emerged from the shadows of the room. They wore hooded robes darker than the Brothers’ and levere veils that draped to the floor. The noise—the chanting—came from them, and Serra watched as something else entered the room from no door, something the others surely could not see or they’d be screaming despite the claren.
An energy force rose from the top of the chanting figures’ heads, three strands of faint azure energy coming together to form a stronger beam, an echo of the glory of Madel’s hand. The claren parted where the energy came through, and it congregated directly above the Lanserim’s heads. The shape it formed reminded her of the stories her mother used to tell of the needlestorms outside Thokketh in winter. The three men’s voices strengthened and the storm solidified. They had amazing control of the energy—it grew firmer with each repetition of their verse. Vesperi had never been able to direct her magic like that.
Vesperi. Serra grabbed at her arm and pointed her hand toward one of the men. She could feel the energy pulse through the Meduan’s skin as Vesperi released it. The silver stream surged and hit the veil the closest man wore. It rebounded.
“Duck!” Serra pulled Vesperi down with her, and the rest of their group went to the ground as soon as she spoke. The reflected energy flew right over their heads before slamming into a wall. Hundreds of burned claren clattered to the floor, but there were too many and it was too dangerous to use the flame again. The levere was no farce. It was meant to keep Vesperi out.
The remaining claren grew more frenzied as the spell strengthened. Serra had no idea what to do. They could not run, could not use the weapon, had walked into a trap they had been too naive to consider.
Lorne reached his hand down the front of her shirt, his fingers grasping blindly. Serra was too confused to react as he jerked his arm, breaking the leather strap around her neck that held the medallion. Then he winked at her before hurtling the charm against the stone wall. It shattered, a dozen shards of green Ashran glass falling to the floor with a clatter. The only more satisfying sound was that of claren crackling as they burned.
For the first time in her life, Serra smiled when Brothers appeared.
They came in a blue mist that spread out from the fragments of the charm. The claren doubled up and flocked into their hoods only to buzz out again, more determined than before to find an entry point. She knew they never would. Dead men could not be drained of life. The claren, creatures that thrived on malevolence and viciousness, could never be one with the force that animated the Brothers, the same force the wizards could still sufficiently wield though decades removed from their last Rejuvenation.
It took only a few moments for the room to fill with Brothers in the flesh or as near to flesh as they could be. The wizards chanted louder, and she could feel the wind of their spell whirl faster overhead, could sense that in a few seconds more, the wizards would lower it to doom them all, but she could not pick them out in the sea of gray robes. She saw only red wings diving in and out of hoods like fireballs and orbs of dazzling blue forming at the center of each Brother’s form. It felt as if the air in the room had been sucked out. Serra took the nearest hands to her own and squeezed them, Flivio on her left, Vesperi on her right. Then she waited.
“Dispel.”
The Brothers spoke with one voice so loud she swore the volume of it was what caused the needles of ice to burst with blue flames. She could see clear through to the stone ceiling above their heads, faded emblems of spears painted on each support.
“Flee. Our task is finished. Flee.”
The Brothers’ forms flickered, fading, and through the remaining claren, Serra could see the wizards. They had not been destroyed as their spell had been. She could just make out the hum of their voices renewed.
The Brothers commanded again. “Flee.”
Nap was on the ground by the door already, shoving his dagger under it for leverage. Flivio dropped down to aid him, and Janto threw his body against the wood. With the loosening the other men’s efforts produced, it creaked open an inch, and then Janto tumbled through into the hall full of tapestries. Serra hurried after them, Vesperi and Lorne on her heels.
There was no one in the narrow passage. The adver who had greeted them before must have run for help as soon as he trapped them inside. They did likewise, running and running and not stopping until the domes and spires of Qiltyn loomed up against the night sky.
Janto called them to a halt when they reached the stable. The passages had been empty as they fled. Perhaps the advers had been warned in case claren escaped the trap room or … or … who knew why advers did what they did. Serra did not think it mattered. Any advantage they had was lost. And they had lost much more than that.
Napeler broke the silence first, going down on both knees and clutching his handkerchief to his chest. “To Hamsyn, whose death will go down in legend.”
Serra laughed bitterly. “No, it will not. We have failed. We cannot succeed at this. There are too few of us and too many of them, both men and claren. And if we cannot do this, cannot stop them here, then we will be overrun.”
Vesperi, of all people, placed an arm around her in comfort. Serra shrugged it off and kicked the stable wall instead.
“Serra,” Janto’s voice was as tender as it had ever been. “We cannot let his death go unrevenged. We cannot help Lansera, either, by giving up on this. We have to stop it. We have to go back—”
“Don’t say it,” she warned. “Do not say we are going back inside that temple. We are unprepared for this—did we not just learn that in the worst possible way? Who did we think we were that we could pull this off? Hamsyn paid the price of our idiocy.”
She had spent the last three months being told who she had been was a lie, that she was called to a higher purpose. And following it had gotten her precisely nothing. It had gotten Lansera, the country she had supposedly given it up for, one less brave man to defend it. It was too much. Too much. They had believed they could waltz into this temple as though noth
ing were the matter, walk into a den of the worst Meduans that existed and expect to blaze through their portals unnoticed.
Lorne had convinced them of it.
She turned on him. “Why didn’t you tell us what would happen?” She was angry she had begun to trust him, angry Hamsyn had died when Lorne knew there would be a trap. He had to have known it—he knew what the charm was for.
“I did not know.” He leaned back against the wall she had kicked, crossing his legs as though this were a casual conversation taking place over a dinner table. It infuriated her that he had the gall to act that way so close to Mandat Hall and another suicide mission. Hamsyn was dead.
“You did not know? You reached right for the charm.”
He chuckled, hugging his arms to his chest loosely. “All right, what I said was not entirely true. I knew we needed it with us because the Brothers told me that, but I did not know what it would do. I am not well versed on ancient Lanserim artifacts.”
“They only told you to find it and bring it along? Why did they want you to come with us at all?”
His tone tempered. “I am not certain they did, and from the mess we made of things in there, maybe I should not have come. The Brothers aren’t exactly forthcoming with their plans. They give enough information to give us a choice. What we do with that information is ours. I—I thought you would understand that.”
And there it was. The reason she had trusted him after knowing him for only two days, and him a Meduan no less. She did understand. She understood so well, she had pulled her hair out a million times trying to accept it for herself these last hellish weeks.
Serra stopped pacing. “When did they first come to you?”
She knew from his downcast eyes that no further explanation was needed for his actions. He was only doing the same as the rest of them—doing what felt right, however he stumbled into it.
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