Idmaer wandered over to the fireplace to warm himself. While he stood there, neither he nor Edoma spoke. He couldn't guess what she was thinking. Perhaps it was of their shared memories, of bliss and paradise, suffering and sadness. He hoped she still remembered them.
He poured himself a goblet of wine, an import from five hundred miles down the Edin River, as far as the known lands reached. He poured another for Edoma. She had always appreciated good wine.
"No," she said, "I've given it up."
Idmaer raised his goblet. "Then surely the gods must exist, for that is a miracle!"
The jest earned him a sour look. She had been offended at his sacrilege. So be it.
"You don't happen to have any dragon blood in the spire?" Edoma said as she peered about the room. "I had a small vial, but I misplaced it."
It wasn't like her to lose something. Even if she had, she wouldn't admit to it. Narrowing his eyes, he said, "You think I stole it?"
Edoma raised her hands. "Of course not."
Idmaer swallowed. He couldn't help acting defensive. He still wished he'd never stolen from Edoma. He sighed. "No dragon blood here."
With a skeptical frown, she scanned the room again. "A pity." Her eyes settled on him. He followed her gaze to the medallion resting on his chest.
"It's good to see you still wear that, even though you no longer believe."
Idmaer lifted the medallion. Despite its small size, it was heavy. "I'll always wear it. Without it, I cannot control the spire." She had seen the medallion so many times before, so her apparent interest seemed unusual.
"May I?" Without waiting for a response, she grabbed the medallion. As she inspected it, a sweet scent drifted up from her hair, filling Idmaer's nostrils with a forgotten desire. She had always smelled so beautiful.
"I need it," she said, still clutching it in her hand. The determination in her face made Idmaer think that she might wring his neck with the leather cord should he refuse, but he had to. Smiling, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed slightly. She removed her hand.
She clutched her wrist, stricken as though he had squeezed her with more force than he had. "Could you not live without your medallion for an hour?"
"Never," Idmaer said. "It would mean separation from the spire. I haven't taken it off since my father gave it to me." He feared what that utter loneliness would be like.
Edoma grunted. "Then I will be going now."
He knew this wasn't the end of it. Still, he stood and followed Edoma out from his room.
34
Edoma
Edoma paused at the staircase, her fingers drumming on the handrail. She turned, biting her lip. "If you won't give the medallion to me, then come with me to the catacombs. I believe the medallion could be the key to opening the First Priest's tomb."
Idmaer gasped. The spire swayed, and the bricks lightened in color. It was always disturbing watching it change with his moods, but Edoma was more surprised this time. He'd never been all that interested in her quest to find the hidden tomb within the catacombs.
"No," Idmaer said, his face pale. "I cannot go there with you. Neither will the medallion leave my person. The warriors will return soon. Hurn will give us refuge. We don't need this grimoire." His gaze became stony. "I refuse."
From a height of forty feet, she glanced down. The foyer was filled with armored suits and shelves packed with histories of the known world. She looked everywhere except Idmaer's cold eyes. The entire evening, she'd been wearing the bracelet. Idmaer hadn't noticed it at all. Smugly, he'd sat, entombed in all that worthless dross he called collector's items, while she'd apologized. Instead of returning the apology, he'd gone on to claim the gods never helped mankind.
Why did it have to be him she needed help from? Any other person would have been better. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Balling her fists, she whirled upon him, her rage finally unfettered.
"You are a selfish man," she said. Her heart ached to the point of bursting as she thought of how they had once been so in love. While Idmaer's father was High Priest, inside this very spire, deep within the dungeons, they had frequently met in secret. Their love had been forbidden because she was an outsider. And now she saw Idmaer for who he had become—a conceited old man.
Despite her disgust, she still needed him. "Inside the tomb is the grimoire of the First Priest," she said, almost pleading. "With it, we could save Indham."
Idmaer's eyes widened. "Surely not. It is just a book."
But Edoma wasn't finished. "And yet you refuse to do me this small favor. You care only for yourself. Did you know that Alfric, our son, is now a skinwalker?" She didn't say that there may still be hope for him. That would only alleviate Idmaer of some guilt. And she didn't want that.
Idmaer shook his head. The ground shook beneath their feet. He had hardly seemed to hear her. "You say this grimoire can save us?"
She couldn't believe him. When he'd found out his son had become victim to the wraiths, he'd thought to care about everyone except him. Her left hand tightened around her staff. The knots in the wood pierced the skin of her palm. Blood dripped down the length of it.
Before she could swallow her anger, she lashed out. The staff slammed into Idmaer's midsection. "You're a despicable man," she said.
He groaned and clutched his stomach.
Edoma realized then her foolishness. The spire lurched. It seemed to groan along with Idmaer.
The stairs crumbled out from Edoma's feet. Letting go of her staff, her hands flayed as they grasped air. Her eyes bulged. She let out a breathless scream.
"Enough!" Idmaer cried as she fell.
At the last moment, before she would have fallen to her death, the ground became soft as cushions. The staff clattered beside her. Scrambling to her feet, Edoma grabbed the staff and stormed out from the spire.
35
Hiroc
Hiroc marched down the corridor toward Ealstan's room. He had searched for Oswin elsewhere but could find no sign of him. The runic glove fitted snugly over his left hand. Twisting the doorknob, he was about to push the door open when he heard a familiar voice—Saega the augur.
"Are you certain they were runes?" the deep voice droned from beyond the door.
"They were like ones the Daughters wear at night, except they reflected like metal does in the sunlight. He's being kept in Idmaer's dungeons with the skinwalkers."
Hiroc's heart skipped a beat. They were talking about Peoh. Kipp must have told Ealstan about him.
"Then he must be the mage I sensed," Saega continued. "I don't know why he's here, but it can't be good. I'll deal with him. In the meantime, you're going to find the missing page."
"There weren't any other pages."
"Do not make me a liar, Ealstan." There was a brief silence. "Take the book and find the page that's missing from it. By tomorrow evening, I want to know you've made progress. No more playing. Deal with that Fatherless. Make sure no one sees you."
"I can't yet," Ealstan said. "I'm using him for bait." He croaked, and a dry rasping sound followed, as though he were being choked.
"Cease your foolish games and do as I say," said Saega. "You did organize the priestly healer to look at my illness?"
"Yes, he'll take care of you tonight."
A thud sounded. The floorboards groaned as someone moved.
Hiroc rushed into the neighboring room. He shoved the door, but it wouldn't shut. He looked down. A fox skull's empty eye sockets stared up at him. He stumbled backward, falling over the wooden prayer stool.
Stars flashed before Hiroc's eyes. Saega's staff clopped as it hit the wooden planks.
"You have big ears for an acolyte," Saega said. His face was a sickly green with open sores. "Do you always listen at the doors of your fellow acolytes?"
Hiroc groaned as he stood.
Saega drew his cowl over his face and snarled. "What did you hear?" Hiroc had never seen the augur act this way. In public, he had always been amiable.
&
nbsp; "Nothing," Hiroc said. "I mean, I heard a sound like someone choking, so I went to see what was happening."
Saega licked his lips. His tongue was blue and swollen. "Get on with you, acolyte. It's only because of your mother that I don't have you dealt with."
Hiroc bowed and walked past Saega when powerful fingers wrapped around his arm.
"It's best not to poke your ears where they don't belong," Saega said as his grip tightened, "lest you wake one day without them." His eyes fluttered. "Ah, so you've been called. I see now why Ealstan despises you." He released his grip. Hiroc watched as the man hobbled toward the staircase.
Everyone thought it a matter of time until Saega keeled over. There was even an underground wager on the number of remaining days until he died. After feeling the man's strength, Hiroc thought he ought to live for a few more decades at least. Whatever the man was eating, it gave him strength enough to bruise Hiroc's arm with a grip. But those sores suggested he was deathly ill. How could a man be so strong and yet look like he was ready to pass through death's gates?
There was only one explanation—Saega was Talented. After all, he had known Hiroc was Talented after touching him. Edoma had done the same thing, and she was Talented.
When he was sure Saega wouldn't return, Hiroc entered Ealstan's room.
It was empty.
In the small amount of time Hiroc had been speaking with Saega, Ealstan must have escaped. A sheet of parchment lay on the bed.
"If you wish to save your Fatherless friend, then come to the kitchen's cellars."
Night had already fallen, which meant Ealstan had to be within the dorms or the common room. He wouldn't go outside. The thought struck Hiroc that maybe Ealstan had left Oswin in an unwarded area, but he rejected it. He refused to think like that.
There would be no leaving the Basilica. Not for Hiroc. Not for Ealstan.
Hiroc just had to find him.
* * *
Hiroc watched as Ealstan lay sprawled over a bench, tossing his dagger in the air before catching it again. He continued throwing the weapon as if he hadn't noticed Hiroc in the room.
"Where's Oswin?" Hiroc said through clenched teeth.
"Getting some fresh air," he said without looking at Hiroc.
"You left him outside?"
Ealstan sighed. He swung his legs around the bench and stood. "He's a Fatherless. I couldn't bring him inside the Basilica. It would be an affront to the Holy Order."
"I'm a Fatherless."
"No," said Ealstan, sheathing the dagger, "you're not."
Hiroc narrowed his eyes. "I might be an acolyte now, but I came from the north just like everyone else."
"Your mother did, yes, but you were born here in Indham." Ealstan smirked. "I know all about your parents. Mother Superior Edoma and High Priest Idmaer."
"No," Hiroc said, shaking his head. "My mother died after she entered Indham's gates. Just like all the other adults." He didn't know who his father was, but he couldn't have been High Priest Idmaer.
"Quit being so naive," Ealstan snapped. "The only reason I didn't have you killed in your sleep was because you weren't a Fatherless. I almost tried before I knew the truth. Saega stopped me. He told me everything. Idmaer and Edoma gave you and your brother up." He grinned, as though he was taking great pleasure in revealing this to Hiroc.
What motive might he have for lying? Besides, there were probably better lies.
Hiroc found himself accepting Ealstan's words. Mildryd the librarian had said she was present at his birth. The only way that would have been possible was if he had been born in Indham. She had seemed crazy at the time, but he doubted that now.
"If you don't hate me because I'm Fatherless, why are you doing this? I haven't done anything wrong by you."
Hiroc focused on Ealstan, hoping that he might discern the truth.
Ealstan's face hardened and his nostrils flared. "Your very existence is an affront to me. You were called, and I wasn't. I've been devoted to Aern since I was able to utter my first prayer. You said Aern spoke with you, and unlike the others, I believed you. Every week I went to Tyme's Hill, hoping I might hear his voice, too. No matter how many times I cried out to him, he was silent."
"It wasn't Aern who called me."
"What?" Ealstan frowned.
"Enlil claimed me as his own."
"Then I have no reason to hate you," Ealstan said, seeming almost disappointed.
"You'll let Oswin go?"
Ealstan shook his head. "I can't do that. I'm not going outside to get him."
Hiroc gritted his teeth, his fears confirmed. If he had to, he would go outside to rescue Oswin. "Where did you leave him?"
Ealstan stepped in front of the stairs, blocking Hiroc's path. "I can't let you go."
"You said you don't hate me anymore."
"Saega doesn't want anyone alive who spoke with the tattooed mage."
Then Bertram was on Saega's list, too.
Hiroc could have told Ealstan that he wouldn't report back to anyone—but that would have been a lie. Ealstan would easily see through it.
"The mage can save us," Hiroc said.
"No one can save Indham. We don't deserve to be saved. You don't know what the First Priest did, do you? You don't know what the carcaern orbs really are."
"I don't care," Hiroc said. "What matters now are all those innocent people who will die unless the Council learns about the tattooed mage."
"No one is innocent," Ealstan said. "Every one of us is guilty of some sin or other."
This wasn't going anywhere. Hiroc could see there would be no reasoning with the other man. Whatever strange ideas he had, probably acquired from Saega, were like mental blocks to his mind. Ealstan's hand dropped to the knife at his belt. His fingers caressed the pommel bearing Aern's likeness.
Remaining calm, Hiroc bit his cheek until the taste of salty blood wet his tongue. "Enlil!" Blue fire wrapped around his runic glove, swirling like a flaming serpent.
Before Hiroc could launch the fireball, Ealstan's blade flashed into his hand, and Hiroc was thrown backward. He skidded across the ground and hit the wall. Pain knifed down his back as he fought for breath.
Ealstan's blade hadn't made contact, yet Hiroc had been pushed by a great force.
"You might be Talented," Ealstan said, knife held downward so the blade was beneath his hand, "but I'm Devoted."
Again Ealstan thrust the blade toward Hiroc. Although he was ten strides away, an invisible force punched Hiroc's face. The back of his neck hit the wall, and he blacked out.
36
Fryda
"You did what you had to," Jaruman said to Fryda. "He lost an eye, but you could have lost far more than that. Don't worry about the hairpin. I'm just glad it helped you. I've said before that you Daughters should be given some kind of weapons. Especially if you're walking around the alley."
When she'd come to the Flaming Monkey, Fryda had scrubbed her hands until they throbbed. There was little blood on them, but she couldn't stop. When sleep evaded her in the cellar, she'd come to Jaruman.
"There've been plenty of stories like that of late," he said. "The Alley's gotten much worse. What were you doing there?" He sighed. "Sorry. I'm not blaming you. A woman should be able to walk where she likes without the scum trying a damned thing. Not all the victims were as lucky as you."
Fryda sipped from her mug and put it back down on the bench. The mead tasted stale. Weeks ago, she'd been unable to sleep until after midnight because of the clamoring drunks downstairs. But now, the inn was filled with families huddled together, most asleep.
The Flaming Monkey had been one of the few buildings to be warded, and the inn had become home to those who weren't fortunate enough to be Daughters, members of the Holy Order of Aern, or warriors. Thankfully, Edoma had warded the storehouse in Alchemist's Alley, so there was unlikely to be a repeat of that afternoon's mishap.
"I just hope Edoma's thought of something more permanent," Jaruman said as he stared at th
e people sleeping.
"She said Sigebert and Cenred made it to Eosorheim." Fryda thought of telling Jaruman about what else Edoma had seen in the scrying crystal, but she couldn't. Jaruman would know immediately that she intended to find Alfric, and that would probably end with her being locked in her room.
"That's good," he said. "Hopefully they manage to convince Hurn to help us."
"She wants to send another party."
"That would mean she thinks they've failed. There's few others who Hurn wouldn't kill before they could enter Eosorheim. That pair were the best for the job."
Fryda scratched behind her ear.
"You intend to go," he said.
How did he guess? There would be no hiding anything from him now. "Not just to Eosorheim," she said. "Edoma seems to think that Alfric might still be alive."
"He's a skinwalker. His soul no longer inhabits his body."
"Edoma said he was different from the others."
"How does she know that?" Jaruman's eyebrows pinched together. "She's used that bloody scrying crystal again? I told her not to." His voice was growing louder. Some of the people stirred in their beds.
"I think she's right," Fryda cut in, hoping she might stop Jaruman on one of his tirades. "I have a feeling."
"Need I remind you what I think of feelings?"
Fryda shook her head. "It's more than just a feeling. Besides, Edoma wouldn't say that he was alive if he wasn't. She's seen skinwalkers. She knows the difference." She sighed, hoping Jaruman wouldn't be angry with what she said next. "I wanted to go after Alfric, but Edoma refused. So I stole her dragon vial."
The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 18