Bertram knocked on the door. Edoma turned and beckoned him into the room. He smiled at Hiroc. "Almost got yourself killed out there. You're lucky I didn't slip on my bowstring."
Edoma cleared her throat. "What is it, Bertram?"
"I wanted to ask you for healing." He pulled down his collar. A vicious wound slashed from his collarbone to his left shoulder.
Edoma stood and inspected the injury. "A skinwalker did this."
"Aye," he said. "There was an incident earlier today in the spire's dungeons. The spire was moving about, and the cells broke. The skinwalkers got out. One of them did this to me." He grimaced as Edoma touched the wound with her finger.
She studied her finger, sniffed it, and reared back. "We'll have to treat this right away." She ushered Bertram onto the floor.
Hiroc went to leave, and Edoma said, "Stay here. It'll help for you to see some wards."
He sat down again. Edoma took a jug of water from the table and washed the wound with it. She then pressed the cuts so fresh blood seeped out from them. Using the blood, she drew wards onto Bertram's flesh. She grabbed the runestone around her neck and whispered an incantation.
Bertram groaned and thrashed about. Hiroc rushed to the floor and pinned him down. Edoma smiled at Hiroc. Finally, Bertram passed out. Where the flaring wounds once had been were now day-old scabs.
"He's going to be out for a few more hours," she said. "Would you like to walk with me?"
They walked through the temple halls, neither speaking. Although it was past midnight, Daughters dashed about, administering to people. Many of those who weren't able to stay within other warded zones had taken refuge inside Enlil's Temple. Seeing them all invading the holy places Edoma loved made him reconsider things.
"Why did you not raise Alfric and me as your sons?" Hiroc said when he couldn't take the silence any longer.
"When you were first born, there was no dragon trade. Idmaer and I were in love, and we couldn't imagine anything more perfect than two beautiful boys. But our perfect life was interrupted when the caravans arrived a few weeks after your birth. The Council wanted to send them away—by force if necessary. Idmaer was inclined to agree with them, but I convinced him otherwise. I encouraged him to use the money in the treasury to employ the people. The Council thought it reckless—few of the adults could even speak—but Idmaer held the power of veto. Soon after, the parents of the Fatherless died. All that food and money wasted, the Council had said.
"It wasn't wasted, though. So many children had lived because of that money. We'd built homes for them all and fed them. But the treasury had been bled dry. Fearing an uproar, Idmaer took a party of warriors to the abandoned mines. He had hoped to find some wealth there. What he found were suppression stones. With the stones, he could command the minds of any magical creatures. He considered selling the stones, since they were very valuable. Instead, he decided that dragons would be worth far more than the stones. The warriors were more than capable of capturing dragons with suppression stones. So that's what they did. They entered Eosorheim and stole a hundred dragons from Hurn."
"Durwin," Hiroc said. Even though most of what Edoma had said was new to him, he'd been able to follow along. He knew what had happened next. "Durwin and his small band of warriors tried to stop the dragon trade. They couldn't, and he despised Idmaer because of that."
"Yes, and that's why we let you and Alfric be raised as Fatherless."
"You thought Durwin would have killed us to get at Idmaer?"
"For certain," she said. "But that didn't make the decision easier. I wanted so desperately to tell you both the truth. But by the time Durwin was executed, you were already known as Fatherless. There were so many Fatherless children that it was simple to have you raised as one of them. They were, after all, mostly living within Enlil's Temple. None of them were old enough to remember who was Fatherless and who wasn't."
"You could have told us. It's not like growing up as a Fatherless was good."
"It was initially. Many of the people thought the Fatherless lovely. They baked food and let their children play with them. But as the Fatherless grew older, they began to turn to crime. Public perception grew cold, and that only worsened things. Idmaer and I couldn't parent them all. We had done our best. The stress of it soon caused Idmaer and I to separate. After that, we never spoke about you two again."
Hiroc still couldn't understand Edoma's reasoning. It still seemed too much like an excuse. "How did you convince an entire town that we weren't your sons?"
"The Fatherless entered the gates only weeks after you were born. Because of the many deaths and misplaced children, it was simple. It was simple. Had it been harder, we might never have done it."
Before he could ask any more questions, Mildryd came.
"Ah, Hiroc. What a pleasure to see you here." She beamed at him and turned to Edoma. "Bertram has awoken."
Edoma had said it would be hours until he awoke. Had they really been walking the temple for that long? As if answering him, the sun crept over the horizon, sending its light through the windows.
Hiroc followed Edoma back to the room where Bertram had passed out.
After making sure that Bertram was feeling better, Edoma asked him, "You said the spire was moving?"
"More than I've ever seen it. Something has Idmaer riled up."
"I wonder if Idmaer knows," Edoma said under her breath. "Retrieving him will be difficult with the dangers the spire poses in such a state."
"Retrieving him?" Hiroc said.
"The Council is putting Idmaer to trial for Aern's death."
"You can't do that! You don't know for certain he did it."
"That's what a trial is for. Evidence will be put forward. He will have a chance to defend himself."
43
Idmaer
The next morning, Idmaer commanded everyone to leave his spire. It was a good thing he did, because the spire was mirroring his rage. His one chance to reconcile with Edoma and clear his conscience had been stolen from him. In a way, it was ironic. He had been a thief, only to become a victim of theft.
A pang of deep regret churned his stomach. Once again, his past was coming back to haunt him. Why was it that the fates never let a misdeed go unpunished?
He pushed open the door to his room. A singular thought might have opened the door, but doing so in his present emotional state could lead to chaotic consequences.
When he sat in his chair, he ran through the laws of self-perfection. Those laws had been passed down to him by his father. They enabled a High Priest to control himself. The first law was one of acceptance. He accepted the return of theft and allowed nature's circle to comfort him.
The rage subsided and the spire stilled.
Idmaer placed the paper from the grimoire on the desk in front of him. The sheet was worn and tattered, though the writing was still legible. The grimoire had been smaller than most tomes, almost pocket-sized. He distinctly remembered its leather surface, untarnished from time because of the gilded wards.
Without those wards, the page in front of him had browned. Idmaer had thumbed the grimoire's contents a number of times. He only knew a smattering of the old tongue, so it was mostly undecipherable.
He held the page up to examine it, his old eyes failing him. The paper slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick it up and whacked his head on the desk. Groaning, he rubbed the injury. His hand came away bloody. He wiped the blood on his robes, but not all of it. His fingers pressed into the grimoire's page, leaving bloody fingerprints.
He stared at the loose sheet for a while as if the foreign symbols would materialize into a language he could understand. Strangely, they did just that. The harsh lines swirled and connected into the common tongue until each line was entirely translated. He rubbed his eyes, swearing that his senses were lying.
After the God Wars, our lands were barren and desolate. The ground yielded no vegetation. Our livestock were born monstrous and defiled. Even our
children came forth strange and light of mind.
So we entered the Infernal City, hoping to request help from the gods. Instead, they rejected us. Their memories are long, and they do not easily forgive. So I thought of a way. Their world was luscious, filled with beautiful trees that gave forth wondrous fruit. The beings living within the city were strong and produced many offspring, none of them born without the ability to speak or hear.
Emboldened by the fruitfulness of the city, I returned to the mortal realm and gathered those left of all the races. Together with the greatest mages, wizards, warlocks, and sorcerers, I fashioned crystal orbs of great power. With those orbs and an army of desperate mortals, we entered the city. At the height of a long and costly battle, I entered the Bargaining Plaza with thirty orbs. Soon after, I returned to the mortal realm with thirty incarcerated gods. Those orbs became known as the carcaern orbs. The gods became Guardians.
We didn't learn until later that the gods had their own punishments in mind. Whoever had held an orb became afflicted with a terrible disease. It was only the pool within the spire that prevented me from becoming a husk like the others. They turned into walking dead men, decaying until only their spirits remained. They tried to enact their vengeance, but the orbs kept them out.
It's been five hundred years. Altars have arisen throughout the known lands, and I've sent an orb to each of them. New cults have emerged to celebrate the protection these new gods provide. With those orbs, none of the original spirits can enter the realms. They now roam the lands defiled after the God Wars. Some call them wraiths. But I still call them friends. They wish vengeance upon me since I did not share the pool with them. I still visit that pool every day, fending off death's call. Mostly I fear what will happen when I pass from this world to the next. Will the gods have their vengeance then?
Idmaer turned away from the page, disgusted. This wasn't a grimoire. Grimoires depicted magical spells and their properties. This was the personal diary of the First Priest.
He had never seen a pool of youth in the dungeons, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.
Idmaer returned to the page, but the words had become their previously indecipherable state. Whether his mind had conjured a fantasy or whether the words had truly been in the common tongue was impossible to tell. He slipped the page into a secret pocket inside his coat. It seemed not even his spire was a good place to store things; on his person was the only place he could trust to keep thieves away.
A commotion from outside drew his attention. He crossed the room and peered out the window. A number of warriors were waiting below, staring straight at him.
Idmaer hadn't the slightest idea what they wanted with him, but he left his room and traipsed down the stairs. The spire responded by moving the spiral staircase so that it plunged straight down, providing a more expedient trip to the entrance foyer.
A dozen warriors stood at the spire steps. They were garbed in full armor, sunlight reflecting off chainmail shirts peeking through green tabards. Fastened to studded baldrics looped over their shoulders were swords and axes. None of them had unsheathed their weapons, but they stood with their arms folded across their chests in a united front of menace. At the front stood Bertram, captain of the warriors. Unlike the rest of the men, his weapon wasn't sheathed. He pointed a longsword toward the spire in open contempt of Idmaer's office as High Priest.
Realizing that this was an assault, Idmaer communed with the spire. The iron gargoyles on the walls transmogrified, becoming liquid metal. The blobs of metal slithered to the windows and double-doors. Iron bars formed in crisscrossing lines over them.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the warriors?" Idmaer called out, his words dripping with conceit.
Bertram stepped forward, still pointing his sword as if he would storm the spire with his men. "You are accused of deceit against the Council. You are commanded to attend a trial."
Well, this was an interesting development. More people had gathered behind the armed men outside. It looked like half the town had come to watch the warriors draw Idmaer out.
But there was no chance whatsoever he would be going to the courtroom. Those trials were only for appearances. The people wanted blood—and they wanted his.
"You are welcome to enter my spire and we can discuss this command over a meal," he said. "You cannot wait out there forever. The sun will fall tonight, and you'll have to return to warded premises."
Bertram scowled. He would know how futile it would be to enter the spire with harmful intent. "You can come out now, or you can come out later."
Idmaer laughed, loudly enough so each of the warriors could hear him. "I assure you the spire's storehouse has ample supplies to keep me satiated until I die of old age." And that could be a long time if he found the pool of youth the First Priest had written about.
Bertram sheathed his sword. Turning, he waved his arms, and a cart crested the hill. It stopped just outside the spire's gardens. The warriors began removing a number of tools from the cart—shovels, pitchforks, barrows, and the like. They each took a tool and started digging.
Idmaer's smile faltered. They were removing the wards.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the stone bricks that formed the outside steps. He imagined them flying of their own accord, shooting through the air and crushing the warriors. He heard yelling and crashing. When he opened his eyes, he peered outside. A half-dozen warriors lay beneath stone bricks, but more warriors had taken their place. It wouldn't be long until they'd removed the wards.
What crime did they think he had committed to make them so willing to give their lives to capture him?
Idmaer extended his hand toward the iron bars that crossed over the windows. He twisted his palm, and the bars became liquid metal again. With little time, he fashioned them into crude iron spears. A volley of spears shot through the window, each one finding a mark.
Bertram had retreated outside the spire's influence with more warriors. They were no longer digging.
Idmaer smiled. He had done it.
"You may kill us all," Bertram yelled from a place of safety, "but you'll be a wraith's victim tonight."
What did he mean? Had the final ward been removed?
Sweat trickled down Idmaer's forehead. He didn't wipe it away as it ran down his cheek. The spire trembled.
"No more killing," he heard someone yell from outside. That voice. It was Edoma's. "You are only adding more crimes to your tally."
Her voice struck him through the heart. If she was here, then she believed the charges. His conscience wanted nothing more than to tell her that he'd stolen the book, but doing that would only incriminate him further.
He couldn't remain in the spire. Soon, darkness would come, and he would become a skinwalker. The spire would be lost then.
The doors opened at his command. They lurched free of their hinges, flying toward the warriors. They stumbled out of the way, but one of the doors clipped a warrior on the back of his knees. His legs exploded, and he dropped to the ground, screaming. The doors could be replaced; Idmaer's pride, however, would be harder to repair.
Idmaer didn't look at Edoma as he strode out into the courtyard, hands tucked into his coat pockets. "So, you've decided to destroy the wards around my building. I guess you're happy, now? I must say you—"
Someone came from behind and slammed him into the ground. The gravel scraped across his face, and pain surged along his shoulder. He felt shackles cinch around his wrists. He called out to the spire a final time. The medallion burst with light and a great screeching emitted from the spire, like the chorus of a thousand dying souls. Too far to do anything but watch on, the spire bucked before straightening again. It, like Idmaer, knew they were defeated.
Bertram threw Idmaer inside a waiting carriage and chained his arms to a plank. Edoma came soon after.
"I know that you're a mage," Idmaer said. "It all makes sense now. I suspected something all along. Both you and Saega. But I never allowed myself t
o believe it. I thought my wife would never lie to me about something so great. But the wards, the scrying crystal you spoke of, the grimoire, the staff you carry . . . All those things can only mean one thing."
"And you are a god-killer," she said without emotion. Dark eyes glared at him, and he was unable to speak. There was no love between them anymore—he could see that now. She spat on the ground and slammed the carriage doors shut. The lock sounded with a clank. The carriage lurched and bucked as it left the spire.
44
Edoma
Through the wicket, Edoma stared at Idmaer's crumpled form. Gargled breaths were the only confirmation that he still lived. He had been arrested a few hours ago. She closed the hatch and turned to Wulfnoth, who was seated on a chair just outside the cell. "Has he been given any water?"
Wulfnoth dropped the waterskin from his mouth, guilt plain on his face. "Before Saega left, he said Idmaer wasn't to receive any until tomorrow morning."
"For the gods' sake, man!" Edoma reached for the waterskin in Wulfnoth's hand. He looked on as she grabbed it but made no move to stop her. She sniffed the skin and threw it back at him. "Wine? What kind of guard are you?"
Wulfnoth shrugged. "It's not like he'll be going anywhere."
Edoma couldn't believe it. The greatest tracker in Aernheim had been reduced to this drunken fool. Sure, he'd had his moments of sober usefulness, but those were infrequent at best. Saega would have told Wulfnoth to guard Idmaer out of spite. They'd once been great friends.
"Do you think he did it?" Edoma asked.
Wulfnoth seemed to calculate his answer. "I'd rather wait for the trial."
"You have information?"
He swallowed under her gaze. He fumbled on his belt and unclipped a second skin. "This is water."
Edoma tore the waterskin from his grip. She peered through the grates again. Idmaer hadn't awoken. His chest rose and fell in fragmented jolts. He'd been taken straight from his spire to the warrior's barracks to await his trial. That had been done on Saega's orders. It seemed that Saega had been planning Idmaer's arrest for some time.
The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 22