Not wanting to speak any more about magic, Edoma asked, "Still no sign of the vial?"
Mildryd shook her head. "The Daughters have upturned the entirety of the temple, and they haven't found it."
"How much blood remains?"
"Enough for another two weeks. We're slowly running out."
Maybe people will die, Edoma thought. It was a terrible thing to hope for, but it would provide for more wards.
"Then we'll need to ration it carefully," she said.
"Surely someone else might have dragon's blood? What of Idmaer?"
At the mention of Idmaer, Edoma realized that she was still wearing the bracelet. Making an effort not to be seen, she removed it and dropped it into her pocket. "Idmaer won't have anything dragon related. Especially after what happened with the dragon trade."
"A tragedy," Mildryd said. It was more than a tragedy. Idmaer had lost most of his influence after the people had learned the methods used to capture and enslave the dragons. He had allowed the use of suppression stones—barbaric devices that forced a magical creature to act against its will. According to Idmaer, the town had needed the money. After the fact, no one wanted to believe him. Suppression stones were one of the greatest evils of the past age. It wasn't only the stones that had turned the people against him. He had emptied most of the treasury to feed, clothe, and home the Fatherless. In some way, Edoma felt guilty. She had been the one to convince Idmaer to adopt the Fatherless. But an empty treasury didn't justify the dragon trade.
She sighed, trying to think of some possible way to resolve this predicament. Was there anyone else who might possess dragon's blood? Saega had a large collection of magical items and relics. If anyone were to have dragon's blood, it would be him.
"Saega," Edoma said.
"He's been unwell of late. Have you seen anything of him?"
"Not since the warriors went on their quest." It was only after saying it aloud that Edoma realized just how long it had been. He had been coughing and spluttering even a week ago. Perhaps he would have gotten over the sickness . . . but it could have easily gotten worse.
"After I empower the wards for tonight," Edoma said, "I'm going to pay Saega a visit. Hopefully he's well enough to speak." In truth, she also hoped he was still alive. It had been easy to forget how old he was. Even in the last month, he seemed to have worn away.
Edoma barked orders to the Daughters as she entered the carriage. She visited the various buildings important enough to ward. The inner buildings of the Basilica. Enlil's Temple. The Council Hall. Idmaer's Spire. Each ward she empowered seemed to take something from her.
By the time she was finished and back at the temple, she was aching. The sun still lingered on the horizon. She painted a final ward on her face and empowered it, filtering a small amount of spiritsoul into the symbols. Warmth rushed through her, and a soft reddish glow pulsed above her eyebrows.
Bidding the Daughters farewell, she made her way to Saega's home within the Basilica Quarter. He wasn't a priest of Aern, but because of his close relationship with Idmaer and the other priests, he had been given the small house.
When Edoma entered Saega's home, the scent of freshly cooked meat greeted her. Bones sat within a bowl on the table. Empty vials were arrayed in a neat line next to the chair Saega normally sat in. Edoma picked one up and sniffed it. She almost dropped the bottle from rearing back so quickly.
It was medicine. Potent and more likely to burn your insides than cure a sickness.
Why hadn't he come to her for healing?
Although Saega wasn't there now, he had definitely been here recently. That much was a relief. She couldn't imagine him dying. He was the only person other than Jaruman who had seen the terrors of the Scorched Lands. The Fatherless had journeyed from the Scorched Lands to get to Indham, but not one of them was old enough to remember what it was like. Thank Enlil for that.
The candles had burned away, now nothing more than disfigured clumps of wax. Had Saega been spending the nights in total darkness?
Glass figurines, ash wands—the room was overflowing with objects, most no more magical than a rock. Not knowing where to start, she searched for the likeliest place Saega might keep something as valuable as dragon blood.
The hunt took her to the storeroom in the back. Unlike the rest of the house, it was almost bare. A single table rested against a wall. Edoma removed the black robes that covered it. Large enough to be bedsheets, she held them in her hands. It still felt so soft after many years. It was Saega's runic device. He had worn it while they had traveled through the Scorched Lands. It had lasted the entire journey without a stain or a tear.
She put the robes aside. The only other items on the table were a suppression stone and Agnerod's Touch—Saega's fox-head staff. She reached for it but paused. A magical weapon of this sort bonded to its owner. Touching a foreign staff might lead to unforeseen consequences. They'd experienced that when they'd acquired the staves.
The suppression stone made her scowl. They were evil objects. Someone had made them with magic so that they could control magical creatures. Idmaer had allowed their use so the dragons could be captured. Now Beorhtel equipped his dragonriders with them so the magnificent beasts they rode were nothing more than husks, extensions of their rider's minds.
Disappointed, Edoma threw the robes back over the table and returned to the front room. The mess seemed to glare at her until she could take it no longer. She gathered the wax and dumped it outside. She replaced the holders with new candles. As she cleaned, she hoped that wherever Saega was, that he had made it to a warded building. Finally, she gathered the empty potion flasks. The smell that wafted from the washing basin was foul, but soon the flasks were cleaned and stacked in a corner.
Placing her hands on her hips, she admired her efforts. Even that little work had made the room look much cleaner. Out of breath, she sat on Saega's cushioned chair.
Sitting in the empty house soon made Edoma uneasy. There was something about the place and the absence of Bodil that made it seem wrong. Sure, she had remarried before her death, but, to Edoma, she had always been Saega's wife, even after she'd married Wulfnoth. They'd always seemed like two halves of a whole. But behind the closed doors of a home, much went on that outsiders weren't privy to.
Edoma could attest to that. She reached into her pocket and took out the rope bracelet. The touch of the fraying threads as she twirled it around her fingers unsettled her.
Through the window, she stared at Idmaer's Spire. It had once been her home as much as Idmaer's. The man she had once loved more than life itself had fathered her children. He'd fathered Alfric. He deserved to know what had happened to his son.
Edoma stood. You mustn't, she told herself. But her mind knew exactly what it would take to convince her to go there. Without dragon blood, the best thing she could do was enter the First Priest's tomb. To do that, she needed the First Priest's medallion to open it. All it would take was convincing Idmaer to give it to her.
33
Idmaer
"Continue polishing the relics," Idmaer called out to the acolytes before leaving the Basilica's reliquary room. He made for his spire, glad to be away from the Basilica. There were only so many menial tasks he could demand of the acolytes. Without a Guardian, they were without purpose. Of course, they didn't know Aern wasn't within the altar at Tyme's Hill. Like everyone else, they had believed the lie that Aern had simply been weakened.
Many of them were asking questions about why Aern wasn't offered sacrifices, though. A few days had led to a few questions, but nine days led to many questions. Soon the Council would be asking them, too. He could handle the populace hating him for his lies, and even the acolytes, since he could simply hide within his spire. But it would be unthinkable for the Council to find out that he had lied to them; that would surely earn a death sentence, High Priest or not. He was more a king than priest, but even kings could fall.
He walked through the gardens and stepped over Edoma'
s wards that encircled the spire. They illuminated every night. Idmaer had often watched the wraith clouds attempt to breach the circle. Sparks flew as soon as they touched the boundary. As powerful as the spire was, it couldn't protect against wraiths. Only those mysterious wards Edoma drew were capable of that. Idmaer wasn't sure when he'd realized it, but he now knew that Edoma had been no librarian in Mundos. In fact, he was almost certain she'd been a mage. Thinking about it made him angry, that she would keep such a secret from him, but he soothed his fury by remembering that he'd also kept secrets from her. Their marriage, while good at times, had been a nest of lies and deceit. He was glad it was over.
As soon as Idmaer entered the spire, the customary comfort washed over him. It wasn't just a feeling of returning home after a long day; the spire offered him a genuine sanctuary that calmed his mind and rejuvenated his body. He hadn't slept more than a few hours a night since taking ownership, nor had he been bedridden with any sicknesses.
He grasped the medallion around his neck. The staircase shifted to meet him. As he walked the stone steps, he glanced at the portrait of his father. What would he think now? Aern's orb had been shattered. Surely he would castigate Idmaer for allowing it to happen. But what could have been done? There had been no sign of the giant nor any indication of his motives besides pure malice.
The staircase continued upward, stone shifting upon stone, until Idmaer reached his desired location—the spire's peak. For ten years, since his father had conducted the ceremony of transfer, Idmaer and the spire had been one in mind, if not in body. The spire transformed with his mental state—a magic that required constant meditation to control the passions. In a way, it had been good that he and Edoma had separated, since she tended to enrage him, and the spire mirrored that. During those days, it had been a volatile place where numerous injuries had been caused by disappearing steps or a servant crushed between walls that quickly narrowed.
Thousands of years ago, the First Priest had built the spire with godstone and an iron composition unlike anything else in the world. Its purpose was a mystery. Some said it was an act of hubris, a tower to spite the gods, whereas others suggested it was a means of entry into the Infernal City—the world of the gods. Regardless, the spire's magic was unlike anything even Beorhtel's inquisitors were capable of performing. Like the medallion around Idmaer's neck, the spire was passed down from High Priest to High Priest. Apparently, an unbroken succession extended from Idmaer to the First Priest, though there were arguments about certain links in the chain.
Idmaer spent the next hour within his study, opening letters and writing responses. He continued to correspond with King Beorhtel, who continued to reiterate that no one from Aernheim should cross the border. Idmaer daubed his initials on one particular letter to King Beorhtel. He cursed when he realized he had forgotten to address the king with the necessary titles he demanded of all correspondence.
The spire responded to Idmaer's mood with a sudden lurch that shook the overhanging beams. The desk rattled, sending letters from all over the continent to the floor.
Idmaer still couldn't believe King Beorhtel's outright refusal to help them. Indham's warriors were employed within Beorhtel's army as dragonriders. The dragons they rode upon had been captured by those same warriors. The suppression stones that forced the dragons to obey had come from the mines below Jagged Peaks. Everything the people of Indham had done for Beorhtel was now rejected.
Screwing up the vellum parchment, Idmaer tossed it onto a pile that was quickly becoming more expensive than any of the busts, tapestries, or relics haphazardly hung or mounted wherever there was space. He slid another parchment before him. Painstakingly, he rewrote the first letter. A knock came from the door, and he fumbled the quill, striking a crude line across the parchment.
His head shot up, ready to glare daggers at whoever had interrupted his letter-writing. His anger pulsed through the spire.
Edoma's face peeked through the doorway, and Idmaer's tenseness dissolved. He had sensed a presence entering the spire earlier, but the last person he had expected was Edoma. The room seemed to expand as he exhaled, though it was impossible to tell whether it had actually increased in size or whether it was mere perception.
"Edoma, please, come in." He stood and beckoned her with a wave of his hand.
She shuffled into the room, the first time she had stepped through the doorway in many years. Her slight frame navigated through the mess to the rug beside the fireplace, where they'd once both lain, naked and satisfied. She had been prettier then, youthful and supple. Memories pained Idmaer, and he did his best to shun them.
The more pressing matter was why she had ignored their past grievances and come to the office? Perhaps she had come to apologize? Patches of dust and grime spotted her garments as if she had been in the middle of working and had decided to visit the spire on a whim. Glowing wards gave her face more color than it normally had. It gave her a wild look as if she were a witchdoctor from a barbarian tribe in Tygeheim.
Idmaer realized he had not spoken after inviting her in and said with a dry mouth, "The storms have cleared. Although without Aern, storms are something we must become accustomed to." The weather was always a suitable topic for conversation, no matter with whom you spoke, though the subject had become more interesting of late.
Her eyes lingered on the rug for a moment before she took a seat on the stool beside the fireplace. She appraised the room with a frown, staring at the portrait Idmaer had the spire construct from a compilation of godstone bricks of various shades. It was that artistic ability lurking within the spire's consciousness that made Idmaer think it was somehow alive and possibly even possessed a rational mind.
"I see this place is the same as always," Edoma said, turning up her nose. "Actually, I'd say it's worse than when I was last here." Her reaction wasn't a surprise. She had always hated how his office became the dumping ground for weapons, armor, books, and just about anything else he could get his hands on from outside Indham. In the years without her influence, the room had become nearly impassable.
"When did you become so negative?" Idmaer said in jest. In truth, Edoma had always been the kind of person to assume the worst. "You've come to condemn me for the bloodletting?" He had started the process himself. After hearing that the leeches would taint the blood, he thought that the mechanisms would be useful. Edoma was using similar ones to extract blood from corpses. Oswin had removed the mechanisms from the dungeons and taken them to the statuary behind the spire. There were only a few volunteers who'd come so far, but Idmaer hoped there would be more.
"As long as the people who give their blood are willing, I can't condemn you."
Satisfied, Idmaer smiled. There were a few he wouldn't mind taking to those barbaric devices. Most people, really. More likely that they would turn on him and he would become the first unwilling victim.
Edoma stared into the fire. She seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze, as though there was something she wished to say but lacked the courage to say it. "Do you think Hiroc will keep his tongue? I imagine a young man like him is chomping at the bit to talk with someone about what he saw."
Idmaer rubbed his beard, hiding his surprise behind gnarled fingers. He didn't think she would speak of Hiroc. "He will remain silent. He has his faults; reneging on promises is not among them."
"He saw a terrible thing. He cannot be blamed if he speaks."
"Oh, I won't blame him. I only hope this doesn't break him. We must guard our tongues. He won't take kindly to being pitied."
"He reminds me of someone I know," Edoma muttered.
Ignoring her, Idmaer returned to his desk and sat. Noticing a scroll out of line, he shifted it so that it was aligned at right angles with the other objects. Unlike the rest of the room, the desk had to remain immaculate. It was impossible to work otherwise. He caught himself before he adjusted the inkwell. Had he always been so fussy?
He looked at Edoma, and, for the first time in forever, he saw the w
oman who'd captured his heart long ago. Here she was, standing before him, something on her mind and yet too afraid to say it. He was ready for her apology.
"We're not competing sides, Edoma. If you have something to say, please say it."
She picked at the dust on her dress and flipped her braid over her shoulder. "I think it's about time we put aside our past. Indham needs us to be united. The warriors have been gone a week."
Idmaer smiled, glad he hadn't had to apologize. "They have likely arrived at Hurn's altar by now. Perhaps another week and they'll return. Unless something has happened to them . . ." Something unsettled him, though he couldn't place his finger on it. The topic appeared to unsettle Edoma, too. "Ah, it's probably just the weather," he said with a dismissive wave. "Cenred and Sigebert can handle themselves."
She stared into her lap. Unsettled by the strange way she was acting, Idmaer went over to the window. He didn't call the bricks away this time. More storm clouds had gathered over Indham.
"The gods have cursed us. Damn them, every last one."
"For a priest, you are an impious man."
"I stopped being a priest a long time ago. I'm more king than priest now."
Edoma shook her head. "Have you no trust in the gods?"
"You still believe in them? I'm afraid I've grown too old and weary for such notions."
"I thought you impious but not an atheist." She almost spat out the word as if it were horse manure.
"No, not an atheist. The gods exist beyond our plane, but do they have anything to do with us?"
"They gave us the Guardians."
Idmaer didn't respond. He didn't feel like arguing with Edoma about the finer points of philosophy. It wasn't that he thought her beneath him; it was the contrary. She would have been capable of rebutting every one of his claims, providing an answer to every stipulation. But in his heart, though she might defy it, he knew the gods didn't care about men anymore. Even during the plentiful times when Aern protected them, he had known this for truth. The gods had closed their ears to the cries of men, their eyes to the suffering of the poor. He knew the counterarguments. He could recite every one of them. But he wouldn't. He had long rejected them.
The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 17