The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1)

by Samuel E. Green

  In the meantime, Edoma had tried to gain access to the spire. It seemed that she was no different from everyone else—an iron rod had come a fraction from pinning her to a tree in the spire's garden. Since then, she'd commanded the warriors to cease their attempts to gain access. It had become clear that another approach was needed.

  She wouldn't have visited Idmaer had she another chance. She needed to get into the spire. If the trial was to be fair—and that was necessary given the blood the people now yearned for—Peoh needed to be present. Wulfnoth's lack of an answer troubled her. What information did he have that he wasn't willing to reveal to her?

  Unsettled, Edoma glared at him. "Well? Are you going to open the cell?"

  "Saega said—"

  "I don't give a damn what he said! Open the bloody cell!"

  Wulfnoth fumbled the keys and unlocked the cell door.

  "Get someone to relieve you," she said. "You're a drunken mess."

  Wulfnoth gave her the keys and stumbled off.

  Edoma soaked the hem of her dress with the waterskin and wiped Idmaer's bloodied face. He moaned, but his eyes didn't open. She grabbed either side of him and felt fresh wounds. Scourging. Someone—or many people—had presumed to punish him without a trial. Had that been on Saega's orders too, or had they done it of their own volition?

  Seething, she turned him over, careful of the lesions. The lightness of his body came as no surprise. She remembered when he had been well-muscled with a thick layer of fat, but that had been before stress and old age had taken its toll. Now he was frail, and beaten besides. With his body already weak, he might not survive the day. If that were the case, there would be no trial.

  Edoma wasn't sure whether she believed he had done it. He'd definitely played a part. Peoh's presence in the spire and the stolen grimoire made her sure of that. But was he capable of deicide? In her anger, she had accused him of it.

  Had she not seen him use the spire to kill dozens of warriors, she might have controlled herself.

  Why would he have killed men who'd fought to defend Indham unless he were guilty?

  The wounds on his back were fiery and swollen, begging to be dressed. She needed him to survive for the trial. He cried out as she washed them. Pieces of gravel fell from the cuts.

  She peered out into the passageway. No one had come to relieve Wulfnoth yet. She and Idmaer were alone for now. Palming the runestone, she used Idmaer's own blood to ward his back. When she was finished, he awoke, eyes half open. Even her magic couldn't bring a man back from the brink of death completely. He might never recover fully.

  "Edoma . . ."

  "I have come to request something from you."

  "What is it, my love?" he whispered.

  She reared back. How long had it been since he'd called her that? It should have made her angry. Instead, all she felt was pity. She looked down at her weathered hands, Idmaer's blood caked into every crease. Throughout the years they had spent as lovers, she had thought of this moment—Idmaer's final hour. Now her magic had extended his life beyond where it might have ended. She slowly fed Idmaer the remains of the waterskin. By the time he had finished drinking, he had mostly returned to his senses.

  "You came for me," he said.

  "No. I need you to relinquish control of the spire."

  "I cannot." Idmaer slumped against the brick wall.

  "You must!" Edoma wanted to throw the waterskin in his face. Only sheer force of will prevented it. "No one can enter it. Everyone who tries is killed by the spire's magic."

  Idmaer laughed dryly. "A loyal friend to the end. Nothing like Wulfnoth." He raised his voice. "You still out there, old friend? Care to give me another lashing?" Confused, he looked at Edoma. "You can't enter it?"

  "I almost died trying."

  "It must have been the way I felt when I left. Now, no one who has enmity with me can enter the spire. And it will be difficult finding someone who doesn't, now that you've convinced them all that I killed Aern."

  Half-truths. Always half-truths. He could never speak a word without infusing it with some falsehood.

  "You might not have killed Aern, but you helped the archmage do it."

  "What archmage?" he said, seeming confused. Edoma knew the confusion for a lie.

  She narrowed her eyes. "I do not know why you helped Peoh, but at least make penance for your sins by granting me this."

  "It is true that I stole the grimoire. I was angry and wanted to spite you. I meant to tell you but never found the right occasion." Idmaer's gaze settled on Edoma. His gray eyes were stalwart, not wavering in the slightest. "The book was stolen from me. I know not how long ago, but it is not where I kept it."

  "Why must you lie?" Edoma balled her fists, willing herself not to cry. She couldn't understand why he would tell the truth about stealing the book but not the truth about Aern. Perhaps he thought they didn't have condemning evidence.

  "I did not kill Aern." Idmaer reached for her, but she pulled away. "Please, trust me."

  Edoma closed her eyes. She so desperately wanted to believe him. She could believe that he was a thief, but not a murderer, especially of Aern. But the evidence said otherwise. He might not have shattered the orb with his own hands, but he'd assisted another to do so.

  "Release the spire from your control," she whispered. "Unless you do so now, Saega will torture you when he returns." She knew it for certain now. No one would heed his cries for mercy here. The warriors had beaten him to the point of death, and they would return with more forms of punishment before the trial began.

  "Let Wulfnoth do his best. I've already been punished for a crime I did not commit. Whoever is responsible has turned the woman I once loved against me. I will not lose the spire, too."

  "No one else turned me against you. You did that yourself." Edoma left the cell, determined now to find someone who might be able to enter the spire. She could only think of one person.

  45

  Idmaer

  Idmaer tried to keep a cool head while he waited in the dank cell. He was the lone occupant of the cells in the warrior's barracks. The stench of mildew filled the air, and the only noise was his own breathing. The presence of the spire lingered in his mind, even though he was a mile away from it. In that sense, he wasn't completely alone. The spire didn't speak with human words, but it did offer comfort. He hadn't left the town in years because he couldn't take being away from it for extended periods.

  Edoma's visit had done much to ignite his spirits. Even though she believed him to be Aern's murderer, she had healed him. That had to mean something.

  She was the only person he could count on to save him. Wulfnoth had seemed to take pleasure in striking him. When Idmaer had asked why, Wulfnoth hadn't answered. Instead, the next lash had come harder, and the one after that even harder.

  In one corner of the room were the tattered remains of his cloak. They'd torn it to shreds before beating him. Exhausted, he slipped his hand into his coat pocket and removed the page of the grimoire. The bloody fingerprints were dark now. The letters were still indecipherable. It made him wonder if he had indeed seen them translated.

  Struck by a strange idea, Idmaer bit his thumb until he drew blood. He pressed his now bloody thumb onto the page. The letters danced until they formed the common tongue.

  Blood magic. He should have known.

  He read over the text again. If it was accurate, he had been wrong about the Guardians. They weren't simply forces as he'd philosophized. The thought made him ill. Over the years, he'd been so consumed with his own vague theories about the nature of gods, Guardians, and existence itself, that he'd missed his life.

  Where were his sons now?

  For the first time, he truly considered Alfric's misfortune. A skinwalker. And Hiroc? It had been revealed that he was Talented. If Indham ever survived the wraiths, he would be taken by Beorhtel's inquisitors. If Idmaer lived through the trial and Indham survived, he would ensure Hiroc would be hidden somewhere the inquisitors couldn't
find him.

  The passageway door outside his cell creaked open. Idmaer quickly searched the cell for somewhere to hide the page. The steady clinking of falling boots drew near. Idmaer found a loose brick from the cell's left wall and removed it. When the brick was replaced, the page was hidden behind it. The cell's lock clicked and the door opened. Torchlight burned Idmaer's eyes before his vision settled.

  Wulfnoth stood in full armor at the cell's opening. He had never worn such gleaming steel before.

  "Good to see you've dressed well for the trial," Idmaer said.

  Wulfnoth's gloved hand smashed into Idmaer's face, rocking his head back.

  "I've been waiting a long time for you to get what you deserve." He gripped Idmaer's wrists and cinched chains around them and then did the same with Idmaer's ankles.

  Idmaer still couldn't understand why Wulfnoth suddenly hated him. "I didn't kill Aern." He wiped his bloody mouth with his shoulder, the chains preventing him from using his hand.

  "You sent my son away. You could have protected him."

  "Garmund? He was Talented. Beorhtel's inquisitors came for him. There was nothing I could have done."

  Wulfnoth wrapped his fists around the chains until Idmaer's face was a fraction of an inch away. "I hear your son Hiroc is Talented. Tell me, if it had been him, would you have let him be taken?" When Idmaer didn't answer, Wulfnoth grunted. "I thought so. After Bodil died, my son was everything. I blamed Saega, but he wasn't responsible. He and Bodil didn't see eye to eye, but he told me all about how you showed the inquisitors where to find Garmund. He told me you even had a word with Bodil before she killed herself. Tell me, what did you say to her?"

  Idmaer couldn't believe it. Had the one man he'd called a friend hated him all this time? Idmaer had been the one to convince Bodil to remain with Saega. Not long after, he had told her that if she must be with Wulfnoth, it was better to marry him. "I told her to make your marriage official. That I would officiate the ceremony myself. I wished happiness for her. She was my cousin. We were family."

  "You never cared for family." Taking the chains over his shoulder, Wulfnoth dragged him through the passageway. Idmaer stumbled, unable to stay on his feet. The chains pulled him nonetheless, until they came to the open air.

  Wulfnoth allowed Idmaer to stand. There was no carriage waiting to escort them to the courthouse. There was, however, a retinue of the warriors, equipped as if for battle in full armor and the customary three blades of the warrior's watch.

  "We will walk to the Council hall." Wulfnoth nudged Idmaer on with a fist to the back.

  The onlookers gaped as they passed. The majority muttered curses under their breath, while the braver few yelled obscenities. Idmaer tried to ignore them, but the accusations cut deep. They called him Guardian-killer, desecrater, and much worse besides.

  The sun was at its zenith, and it baked his skin. Sweat poured down his face, making the cuts sting. He thought the people had grown tired of cursing him, when something cracked him over the head with a splat. Fruit after rotten fruit pommeled him until he arrived at the sanctuary of the courthouse.

  Wulfnoth locked the end of Idmaer's chains to one of the posts outside the courthouse. "You'll wait here until the Council calls you in."

  When Wulfnoth had gone into the hall, Idmaer closed his eyes, not wanting to look upon the masses of people any longer. He concentrated on the spire, feeling its faint presence even now. The exercise allowed him to deafen the taunts and curses of the people.

  Screams flooded his ears. His eyes shot open.

  The people clamored as a forest dragon flew above them.

  Idmaer gaped as the dragon landed in the middle of the parted people. Men and women ran in all directions, trying to escape the terrifying creature.

  Wearing robes black as midnight, Saega stumbled down from the dragon's back. In his hand shone a stone of pure white—a suppression stone. Under the stone's haze, the dragon's eyes were filmy and white. It was a large dragon, with magnificent green scales and three-pronged antlers. It had probably been nothing more than a pup when the enclosures had been abandoned. Its wings were small from little use. But the magic that allowed dragons to fly cared not for the size of wings.

  The crowd parted as Saega walked toward the hall. He moved with a long and painful-looking gait. His staff pulled him along like a rower would an oar.

  He stopped in front of Idmaer. The cowl covering his face couldn't obscure the sight of leprous skin. Before Idmaer's eyes stood a dead man walking. He was reminded of the First Priest's words about those who touched carcaern orbs.

  "You . . . you killed Aern!" Saega's eyes shifted to the people behind him, as though he had yelled in order for them to hear. He steadied himself on the post and coughed. Globs of black mucus fell from his mouth, some landing on Idmaer.

  Saega lifted the fox-head staff. He trembled as it came above his waist. Idmaer was unable to do anything as Saega jabbed the end of the staff into his jaw. Idmaer's head rocked back. He spat blood.

  Idmaer's eyes widened. That staff. It was magical. The incision running down Aern's altar at Tyme's Hill . . . Saega's staff could have been used to do it.

  It was plain now. Saega was afflicted with the disease that had tormented the people who had touched the carcaern orbs. He had framed Idmaer for his own crime. He'd also convinced Wulfnoth that he was responsible for Bodil's death and Garmund's capture.

  Saega reached for the medallion at Idmaer's neck and tore it away. Immediately, the spire's presence became dull. It was still there, but Idmaer could no more communicate with it than someone would hear him whisper from a thousand feet away.

  But Saega still wouldn't have full ownership. Not until Idmaer spoke the words of transferal. And he would never do that.

  "High Priest Idmaer is responsible for all your grievances," Saega called out to the crowd and pocketed the medallion. "The wraiths have come because of him. But he will be dealt with. Justice shall be swift."

  46

  Hiroc

  "Help me move this." Edoma put down her staff, the runes on its tip glowing, and grabbed the edges of a rack filled with candles and cobwebs.

  When they'd entered the shop, the candlemaker wasn't surprised at all to see them. He had simply opened the door and led them to the back. Hiroc had asked Edoma whether Idmaer's trial had started yet. When she'd answered no, there seemed to be a deep sadness lurking behind her eyes.

  It was understandable. She had obviously once loved Idmaer enough to marry him and father two children. Hiroc still couldn't believe they were his parents. It had started to make more sense the more he thought about it. Although Idmaer had never acted quite like a father, he'd always favored Hiroc and Alfric. Hiroc had been able to enter the Holy Order. Alfric had been the head porter of the spire.

  "We don't have all day."

  Stirring, Hiroc got beneath one end of the rack while Edoma took the other. It shifted with their combined strength. Where the rack had been was a frayed rug. Edoma peeled it back, revealing a trapdoor. Hiroc's eyes widened. Suddenly, Edoma dragging him to this place made sense. Earlier, he'd asked her why they didn't simply enter through the spire's front door. "There's no door anymore," she had said. "The spire has removed it. Now there is only smooth stone at the tower's base."

  "Let's hope the spire hasn't changed this entrance," she said now as she opened the trapdoor. Holding her staff, Edoma illuminated the darkness. A staircase crept downward. "Thank Enlil. It hasn't changed."

  Hiroc shook his head. "How many secrets are there that I have no knowledge of?"

  "This town is a relic of the First Empire. There are many places beneath the earth where no one has ventured for years."

  "How did you know about this entrance?"

  "In my younger days," Edoma said, a distant tone dampening her voice, "I used to visit Idmaer. It was best to keep our meetings clandestine, and these tunnels made that possible. Not from his father, of course, since he had the spire for eyes. But from those wh
o didn't want us to marry." She cleared her throat. "Remember what I told you. Do not reveal our intentions to Peoh. Tell him you're taking him to see the Council. If he knows what we intend, he won't agree to go with you."

  Edoma guided them through the tunnels, her staff's tip glowing in a small sphere that lit their path a few paces away. Writings lined the walls in a language Hiroc couldn't read, as well as images of creatures he had never seen before. He wanted to pause to look at them, but every time he slowed down, he received a curt demand from Edoma not to tarry.

  The tunnels grew smaller and smaller. He hunched so low that it would have been almost better for him to crawl. He breathed a sigh when the tunnel came to an end and opened into a small alcove. The alcove was furnished plainly with a plaid rug, a wooden chest, and a cabinet. A wooden door was at the other end.

  Edoma walked over to the chest and rummaged through its contents while Hiroc paced around the room. He stopped at a crude etching in the wall beside the rug. Edoma and Idmaer's names were each in separate, but linked, circles. In the middle of the intersecting circles were two smaller names—Hiroc and Alfric. He recognized the formations. It was the old ritual of marriage. A magical warding that was said to keep the couple together. Feeling like he was intruding upon a sacred space, he turned back to Edoma.

  She inserted a key into the door, and it swung open. He thought that it was strange to keep a key in the same place as the lock, but then he realized she probably hadn't come through here in years. "Go now," she said. "The door leads to the dungeons."

  "Bertram said the skinwalkers had escaped."

  "You have your glove. I'm afraid that's the best we can do."

  "Why risk my life to bring Peoh?" he said. He was her son, after all.