by T. A. Miles
A Raventide Books Publication
Ames, IA
Map and cover illustration by Alberto Bessi
Ebook design & formatting by Write Dream Repeat Book Design LLC
Digital Edition: ISBN-978-1-947182-06-6
Mother of Heretics is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, along with all characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Table of Contents
Titlepage
Copyright
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Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
People of Edrinor & Morenne
Glossary of Terms
Vassenleigh Order
Introduction to the Spectrum of Magic
Character Spell Chart
The Magic System White
Red
Brown
Green
Blue
Black
More Books by T.A. Miles
About the Author
Every Demon-Hunter Has A Past
Every Demon-Hunter Has A Past
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More books by T.A. Miles:
Bastards of the Gods Dark Fantasy:
The Demon Shroud (Enthraller, 1)
Mother of Heretics (Enthraller, 2)
Reliquary of the Faithless (Coming October 2013) (Enthraller, 3)
Dryth Chronicles Epic Fantasy:
Six Celestial Swords (Celestial Empire, 1)
Five Kingdoms (Celestial Empire, 2)
Four Barbarian Generals (Celestial Empire, 3)
Three Fates (Celestial Empire, 4)
Two Warring Dragons (Coming 2017) (Celestial Empire, 5)
One Empire (Coming 2018) (Celestial Empire, 6)
Dryth chronicles Companion stories:
The Bone Tree (Stories of Sheng Fan, 1)
Dark & Gothic Fantasy:
Raventide
Masque of Shadow
Prologue
Dacia ran, like she had never run in her life.
The streets of Indhovan were black and blue; shadows lain upon long strips of cobblestone, illuminated by full moonlight. Scarcely a body had ventured out tonight. Everyone had grown wiser in recent days—smart enough to leave the later hours alone and stay indoors, else become a victim of the city’s resident killer.
It was a murderer beyond human, Dacia had learned. It had come at her from the shadows themselves, and would have claimed her, if not for a sudden flash of light that had taken its own toll. Dacia had been running near blind since it struck, her vision a blur of bright shapes. There wasn’t a cloud for the moon to share the sky with tonight, so it could not have been lightning.
Breathing in rapid draws that were beginning to ache, Dacia brought herself to a halt before an alley with lanterns to introduce the start of it. A heavy layer of darkness loomed over the pavement which led to the other side. Dacia bent over for a moment, taking in more deliberate swallows of air while she glanced over her shoulder. The way behind her was as abandoned as when she’d gone through it moments before. Still, she felt pursued.
The notion slid across the front of her mind like a clawed finger, making a scratch that flared with panic. Watching the edges of the shadows carefully, she took a step back. She would find another route.
On that decision, Dacia wheeled around, directly into something that struck her hard in the collar region and propelled her back several steps, too quickly to register anything more than shock. Even as her body smacked against stone and the air burst from her lungs, there was no time to realize what had happened.
In a heartbeat, she was down. In an even smaller measure, she was looking into eyes above her, like hot coals against a smattering of ashes. In the span of a breath, those eyes were joined by another glow; the glint of fire that soared suddenly downward, and embedded itself deep within her.
The flame entered Dacia’s body, at once freezing and burning. It flew through the skin as if that barrier were nothing more than parchment. It sunk heavily into her flesh, scarcely delayed in its burrowing path by the fragile cage that protected her heart. And in the moment of indescribable agony that ensued, Dacia may have screamed.
The blackness that followed the fire’s dive into her breast was the only thing that lingered, and even that was mercilessly brief.
Dacia should have been dead in that span, but she felt more than death in that small darkness. There was a presence within it, one that moved past and around her soul as it clung to her body and anchored her to life. The presence danced about her heart, ran laughing through it, fondled it…embraced it. Then it wrapped Dacia wholly in a warmth that hid her away from death, and that quickly became an exquisite fire beneath her skin and within her mind.
Dacia drew in a breath and couldn’t hold onto it. She swallowed more air and panted it away as the fire ravaged her internally. Tears streaked in hot paths from her eyes and though she wanted to sob, she couldn’t. There simply wasn’t enough air to be had that would allow her any voice.
The sensation of something else near terrified her, but she reached out for it anyway. She clutched it desperately, as if it might have air to transfer to her through her very skin, which still burned at the surface.
Whatever had come to her seemed willing to try helping. A hand returned her tight grip, but the effort was to no avail.
“I…can’t breathe…” Dacia said between abbreviated breaths.
“Hush now,” a voice replied.
Dacia felt something supporting her back now and there was a firm grip on her shoulder as well.
“Help is coming,” the voice continued. “Just hold still.”
Dacia squeezed tighter, a moan of pain escaping with what felt like the last of her breath. “I…can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” the stranger insisted. “You’re going to be fine. Hush now.”
Dacia’s eyes fluttered open. She glimpsed stars in a sky draped with curling tendrils of crimson. A face—perhaps the face of a man, though it was too beautiful to tell—slowly shaped in that sky. She saw him looking down at her, dark eyes glinting in the moonlight, like starlight…and then she saw nothing, though the deep color of his hair stayed impressed upon her mind.
The voice remained as well in her absence of vision. It urged her still
and somehow enfolded her through an episode of darkness that was not death, but purely terrifying in its nearness to it.
It would have been unbearable without the voice. It would have been impossible not to succumb wholly to the presence wrapped around her heart without the whispered song of her attendant, who had hair the color of blood.
One
Some things were difficult to describe, like the way Korsten fell in his dream, and woke up on the floor beside his bed.
But he hadn’t fallen; he was pushed. He felt as if he should have been flying when it happened, but he was bound somehow. Whether it was by rope or chain, or injury, he couldn’t be certain. He had something in his hand, something he wouldn’t let go of. Someone tried to catch him. Maybe they didn’t want him to die, but the look in their eyes was more of hatred than of fear. It was passion….so intense. Korsten felt as if he had betrayed them, and somehow, he was satisfied with that.
The dream was slow separating from wakefulness.
Korsten’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling overhead as he lay on the floor, one leg still half upon the bed. In his peripheral vision, his hair spilled onto the floor and sat as a deep red stain over the swath of white bedding beneath his head.
Above him, a scarlet butterfly clung to the timbered expanse, as misplaced as Korsten’s hair upon the floor. Beside it, a white moth shifted, then fluttered downward. The gentle tumbling motion drew the red butterfly as well, as if the pair were connected by an invisible strand. In their descent, both creatures performed a casual dance that fairly mirrored what had gone on between the bed’s occupants the night before, at least in regard to its light form and decided lack of urgency.
The two soulkeepers kissed the edge of the mattress and promptly fluttered out of view. Their departure preceded the show of an exceedingly dark head of hair, miraculously blue eyes, and a smile that existed only at the proper angle. From Korsten’s current perspective, half turned upside down on the floor seemed the proper angle.
“What are you doing down there?” Merran asked in a voice that mirrored his stoic features. No amount of years could change Merran. Korsten was decided.
“My deduction is that I’ve fallen,” Korsten replied, and accepted the hand his fellow priest reached down to him.
“It was a narrow space to share,” Merran admitted, while Korsten righted himself and returned to the bed.
They found themselves in that narrow space and within one another’s arms once again.
Korsten traced the very corner of Merran’s quirked lips, and then brushed his own over them.
Inspired by that small gesture, Merran drew him closer and rolled onto his back.
In that same moment, Korsten noticed the wings of Analee and Eolyn, as both soulkeepers alighted from the bedding. They glided across Merran’s shoulders, just before Korsten’s fingers retraced the same path. He settled within his partner’s embrace, and they took their morning exchange without words, Merran’s touch negating any lingering worries about the dream for now.
A golden wash of morning light illuminated high walls of books.
Irslan Treir stood at the central table of his library, over a short stack of books he’d lately brought down from the room’s higher shelves. With one hand loosely folded behind his back, he opened the topmost book with the other, inspecting the table of contents beneath the cover.
Demonic Horde of the North…Battle of Fleiglen…Morennish Alliance…
Irslan’s finger moved down the list of topics.
It seemed evident where the volume ought to have been catalogued—a task he’d taken up only recently, in spite having inherited the library nearly two decades ago. Still, he was always tempted to investigate a text further.
“Master Treir,” someone beckoned.
“Good morning,” he replied, his head lifting before his eyes left the reading in front of him. When he did fully look, a smile crossed his lips at the sight of his guests.
They were a distinct pair: one long and thin, white all over with a flowing hood of red curls and dark eyes that sucked the world in; the other matched in height, but thicker, layered in black, including his short hair, with bright blue eyes that seemed to hold everything under surveillance. They were priests, and aptly titled. Irslan had hosted many in his day, so now they no longer appeared shocking in their strangeness, but simply notably unique. “I trust that both of you slept well.”
Merran nodded in reply, while the redhead selected words for them. “Very well, thank you.”
“I’m happy to oblige,” Irslan said. He closed the book on the table. “Any word on—or from—the young lady?”
“I’ll look in on her shortly,” Merran answered. “I’m allowing her to sleep.”
“Good enough.” Irslan’s gaze went from one priest to the other. “Breakfast, for the both of you. What do you think?”
He knew that their kind were not prone to feasting at any time of the day as others did, but surely when away from whatever their source of sustenance may have been, they had to eat something.
“Perhaps something light,” Korsten agreed.
Irslan gestured toward the library doors. “After you, sirs.”
The pair turned and made their way out of the library.
Irslan lingered only long enough to glance over the book he’d had open before. He patted the cover while he stepped away from the table and followed his guests to the dining room, where a small meal had been set out.
“Eat as you’re inclined to,” Irslan said, directing his guests to the ornately carved table with matched chairs enough for eight guests.
Four tall windows comprised partially of patterned stained glass lined the room on the side opposite the entrance. Morning light cast the room in a faintly blushed gold as it soaked through the colored windows and illuminated the predominantly red and gold décor of the room.
The two priests saw themselves to chairs opposite one another.
Irslan took a seat at the head of the table and poured himself a glass of wine. He offered to his guests, both of whom passed, before stopping the decanter and placing it down. “Dare I ask what our situation is?” he began as conversationally as the occasion allowed for.
A glance—a silent passing of dialogue between the priests—facilitated a verbal response, provided by Merran. “The Vadryn we tracked last night was stopped in the midst of possession.”
“Of the girl, yes,” Irslan recalled. He settled back into his seat with his glass in hand.
Merran nodded. “That more than likely means it was looking to settle. Why it chose the girl, I cannot say. Not until I’ve learned more about her.”
“The demon was destroyed,” Irslan said, to be clear on his understanding of the event, one that came abruptly after the priests’ arrival only a day before.
Merran nodded again.
And Korsten said, “There may be another.”
The statement drew Irslan’s gaze. “Another,” he said, inviting explanation.
“The Vadryn are instinctive and territorial,” Korsten explained. “They will settle and draw slowly from their victims when they don’t feel threatened. The amount of murders, if connected to the Vadryn, could suggest the presence of another and that there is a vying for territory underway.”
“But it attempted to possess the girl,” Irslan said, glancing between the two priests. “Would that suggest that the threat which inspired such a conflict has somehow passed?”
“Not necessarily,” the redhead answered. “It could mean that both demons found cause to hide.”
“From the pair of you, perhaps,” Irslan suggested.
“Or from a more powerful one of their own,” Korsten replied and looked across the table at his colleague, who returned the gaze.
The severity in both their expressions was enough to refer Irslan to the drink in his hand, which he brough
t slowly to his lips. He hesitated in a moment of contemplation, but let the topic rest for now and swallowed the mellow, sweet variation of a traditional Indhovan concoction. One day he might have far-travelled guests who he could impress with it, but it seemed that once again emissaries of Vassenleigh would prefer to impress upon him the dire state their country had gotten to. Three demons at large in the city sounded particularly dire this morning.
When Dacia opened her eyes, she was alone in fresh, soft bedding. She had slept, she knew, but her dreams went unremembered. She recalled more of color than of content. Red, especially, stood out from the darkness.
Rolling over on a bed not her own, she was faced with a brilliant gathering of red hair, belonging to the individual perched in the nearby window sill. One long leg was folded into the shallow box of the window frame, while the other draped to a dark wood floor partially carpeted to match red and gold drapes.
Dacia started, and began to sit up, finding herself not quite properly covered, which had her pulling up the bedding around her and her undergarments.
The redhead scarcely looked over, and in so doing his gaze stepped around her, causing her to turn her head and notice the black-clad man sat on the other side of the bed—on the edge of the mattress, to be exact. Dacia gave another mild start, holding the bedding tighter.
“You’re all right,” the man in black told her, calmly and impersonally. His hand came to her brow in the following moment and she let him do what was evidently a physician’s business. His cool touch moved to her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “No fever.”
Dacia didn’t really know what to say, so she said nothing. Had she had an accident?
“She seems alert enough,” came a soft voice from the window.
“Hush now.”
The words dashed forward from memory. Dacia’s eyes moved toward the man in the window first, before she could bring herself to turn her head and look upon him fully again. Beautiful; she remembered now. Dark eyes and blood red hair…yes, she recalled. She had been running for home.
“She’s remarkably alert,” said the darkly dressed man.