“As normal as any of them,” he told the archbishop. “Standard square stone door with wards. The sorcerer who disabled them was middling. I don’t know if he was experimenting and got lucky, or if he found an old book with instructions for opening the wards. I burned all their belongings to make sure. It was the best I could do short of spending weeks trying to find out where the sorcerer came from.”
“Hmmm. No, you’ve done well. Did you go inside? Was there anything unusual?”
Roald’s question was nonchalant, but Aldric sensed an eagerness behind it. The archbishop frequently sent Aldric and others like him into the ruins, supposedly to stop foolhardy treasure hunters from unleashing what they found there. But Aldric suspected the Church didn’t just keep safe the artifacts they recovered. They used them. It was a suspicion he kept to himself.
“It looked to be a standard stage three ruin from the style and power of the wards. The walls were rimed with frost, but not thickly. The treasure hunters were all killed.”
I made sure of that. Aldric rubbed his eyes. Their deaths weighed upon him heavily.
Roald raised his eyebrows, then moved to a narrow desk underneath a window, where piles of paper were held down with weights. He smoothed out a map and jotted a quick note next to a tiny red X, then tapped the pen on the page.
“Killed by you, or by what was inside?”
“Does it matter?”
Roald grunted. “I guess not. Unless it was something we haven’t seen before.”
“Nothing new. A Reaper.”
“Huh.” He made another annotation. “I’ll send some people to clean up. The bodies might have something of note on them, especially the sorcerer’s.”
Aldric narrowed his eyes. “I should return with them. The Reaper needs to be confined again. It will require a sorcerer.”
“Magister Zandra will hire appropriate assistance.”
“I thought she was in Strindiya?” At least, she was supposed to be a thousand miles away on a mission in the burgeoning city.
Roald placed the pen on the table and began pacing back and forth. “I had to recall her, as I need you on something else that’s come up. She’s on a ship as we speak, and with good winds she’ll arrive in a few weeks.”
Aldric suppressed the urge to sigh. Something always came up, and it was never good. He wanted to rest, to visit the healers and work with them. But what he wanted never figured into the equation. He realized his hands were bunched into fists and forced himself to unclench them.
Roald hadn’t noticed. “I need to make a few things clear before I give you the mission details,” he said, ceasing his pacing to pick up one of the paperweights—a burnished metal sculpture of the Elder, one of the five aspects of Menselas. “First, know that we value you and the dangerous work you do. But there are forces rallying against the good of Menselas, and although we are all weary, we cannot rest.”
Aldric nodded and said, “Thank you,” when what he really wanted was to ask for some time off.
“You labor under a great burden,” Roald said. “And Menselas has given you rare gifts. Your rise from priest to magister is but one sign of our appreciation. The missions I give you are another acknowledgment of your talents. You would be wise to see that.”
A compliment wrapped in a warning. Aldric supposed it was the best he could hope for. The sideways promotion he’d received a few years ago had effectively removed him from the day-to-day workings of the Church. The Church of Menselas shunned sorcery, but they couldn’t get rid of Aldric because Menselas had chosen him. As the god had chosen Zandra and Lyster, who Aldric hadn’t seen in years. They were too useful. The Five had marked them, for good or for ill.
Aldric believed for good. He wanted to serve Menselas, to lead a virtuous life. But sorcery was a burden he had to bear.
“I only want to serve Menselas,” he said, voicing his thoughts. “To do what is right.”
The archbishop smiled. Roald was a good man of exceptional faith and strength. Perhaps that was why he’d been chosen to manage those novices tainted by the mark of sorcery. “That’s excellent. As do we all aspire to do his will. You are also fortunate to be blessed with Menselas’s gift of healing. Of his other aspects, no one has shown signs for centuries. We don’t know why this has happened, but it leads us to believe those aspects are on the wane and our god’s focus is on healing. And no wonder, with the state of the world we inhabit. I know you struggle with your place, but sorcery is a unique way of serving our god. Everyone has their own battles; they fight doubts you cannot know. I know things can be … difficult for you, but the time has come for the Church to show how much it appreciates you.”
Roald strode over to a metal safe and took a key ring from his pocket. Fumbling, he selected an ornate key and turned the lock. From the safe he removed a black wooden box that fit into his palm.
Approaching Aldric, he held it out. “Go on. Take it.”
Aldric reached for the box, hesitating. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.” A smile played across Roald’s face.
Aldric stared at the box in his hand. It was crafted from blackwood, a rare timber known to dampen sorcerous abilities and emanations, and that fact gave him pause. He glanced at Roald before opening the lid. Inside, nestled in spongy felt, was a relic: a diamond the size of a quail’s egg, caged in tarnished silver wire. At its core, a pale green light flickered.
Aldric’s breath caught in his throat. He wondered if this was some sort of test, or if Roald was teasing him. Or could it be that after all these years, the Church was finally ready to accept him? He’d worked hard to gain their trust, but had never felt recognized. His hands trembled and his vision blurred.
He hid his emotion by moving the relic into the stronger light by the window. He’d handled such a relic only once before, for a single night during his training. Only given to the most trusted, the relics were used to relive the memories of dead priests.
Millennia ago, the Church of Menselas, along with many other faiths, had battled the demon lord Nysrog and the unholy sorcerers who were drawn to his power. Hundreds of thousands of people had died. The Church of Menselas had almost collapsed. It was a time of great upheaval and devastation, but eventually Nysrog was banished back to the hells. The demon might have been defeated, but his followers still worked to bring him back. That was the unspoken secret of the Church and why they kept their awareness honed. Be forever vigilant, their creed went, lest the demon lord Nysrog is brought back to this world.
“You will know this is a relic,” Roald said. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And that it’s past time for you to be offered a gift such as this. But”—he spread his hands—“you know why you have not yet been initiated.”
“My sorcery,” whispered Aldric. “My taint.”
“Yes. Because of the darkness within you. Many in the Church don’t see things the way we do. Your talent is an anomaly, one that goes against all our teachings. Yet the Five must have a reason for giving you such a gift. Through long and hard negotiation, I’ve persuaded the archbishops this needs to be done. We couldn’t have you unprepared.”
Aldric nodded, not trusting himself to speak. A relic! He would have access to past priests’ wisdom. Real memories, not prone to misunderstanding like the written histories were. And one day, his memories would join them. His knowledge and experiences available for any priest to learn from. Although he’d been promoted above the senior priests to become a magister, until now he hadn’t been trusted. They’d withheld access to the relics. His heart swelled. He was on the brink of acceptance. If he didn’t make any mistakes.
“This one is old and violent,” Roald said. “It was decided you shouldn’t bother with the mundane relics.” He uttered a half laugh. “A violent relic for a violent man, one of the other archbishops remarked.”
He watched Aldric for a reaction. But Aldric was past caring what was said about him behind his back. He knew his worth. And now, it seemed, the Church wa
s taking him into its fold, deeper than he’d expected.
“My talent is for healing. It was the Church that molded me for violence.” Why did he always need to remind them of that? “Nevertheless, I’ll do my best to make use of the memories.”
“Make sure you do. There are currents around the world that point to uncertain times. This relic is special. And, I needn’t tell you, it’s priceless. It’s from the time of Nysrog.” Roald’s mouth twisted in distaste.
The diamond seemed to grow heavier in Aldric’s palm: a direct link to a time of legend. Very few relics from that time remained, and they were never given to priests to learn from. What they contained was too harrowing. For the Church of Menselas, these were gentler times.
Aldric knew his worth; he’d contemplated it deeply. But of this gift, he was unworthy. “Archbishop Roald,” he began, “I appreciate—”
“This is not an honor to be refused. Accept it with good grace, and learn from it. The time of Nysrog was an abomination. Hundreds of thousands of people died before we forced the formidable darkness back into the abyss whence it came.”
Aldric knew the story well. It was drummed into all novices from an early age. Corpses stretching to the horizon. Sorcerers, fouled by Nysrog, perpetrating unspeakable acts. Men, women, and children could not weep, for they had no more tears to shed. Nysrog’s defeat had been accomplished through an ancient artifact known as the Chain of Eyes, subsequently lost.
“I know the history. And I … thank you.”
Aldric closed the box and secured it in his pocket. He’d have to find a safer place for it. To lose such a priceless relic would be grounds for demotion back to acolyte, or even worse if they wanted to get rid of him once and for all. Excommunication. The thought sickened him. The Church was all he had. The sacrifices he’d made would be for nothing.
Roald stared at a faded tapestry on one wall, seemingly engrossed in its details. “Take care not to lose yourself in the relic’s dreams. You’ve not had the practice other priests have had.”
I’m a magister, thought Aldric, but decided not to remind Roald. He was used to such slights, even from his direct superior. But a relic! He’d finally made it. Years of hard work and unquestioning obedience were paying off. Missions where he’d doubted his sanity seemed to pale into insignificance. But …
“What has changed?” Aldric asked. “why now?”
“We have heard whispers. Possibly, the Tainted Cabal are planning something.”
The Tainted Cabal … the followers of Nysrog who had survived the great battle that had returned the demon lord to the hells. So far, in a decade of doing the bidding of his faith, Aldric had crossed paths with the followers of the demon Nysrog only a handful of times. Each encounter had left scars on his soul. And not a few on his flesh.
“What does this new mission for me involve?” Aldric said.
Roald gave him a serious look. He clasped his hands in front of him. “You need rest. But time is of the essence.”
“I’m ready.” He wasn’t, but there was nothing else he could say.
“Well, you may recuperate on the way—you’ll be spending some time at sea. Hierophant Karianne, in Caronath, has requested someone with your … various skills. And Menselas knows, there aren’t many of you. We can’t really spare you, but the order came from their hierophant to ours, and the deal was done without my knowledge. We’ll arrange passage for you up the coast, but you’ll have to travel inland from the Port of Nantin. Unless you take a short cut through the wilderness.”
Aldric brought up a map of the continent in his mind. Caronath was one of the northernmost cities, right on the border of the civilized lands. The country was harsh, with more than just Dead-eyes to harass settlers and explorers. There were creatures of power that skirted the edges of mankind. Much of the wilderness was yet to be explored, and men fought a constant battle against nightmare creatures to maintain the foothold they had.
Roald was right. Nantin was south-east of Caronath. If Aldric was dropped off along the coast further north, he could cut weeks from his trip. It was dangerous, but it could be done.
“I’ll pack my gear,” he said.
Roald smiled ruefully. “I can always rely on you. But there’s one more thing. Hierophant Karianne requested assistance for an unspecified period. It could be months. Years, even. I hope you see the necessity for this.”
Aldric felt as if he’d had icy water dumped over him. The relic had led him to believe he’d finally made progress. Now, Roald was practically ordering him to remain in another city indefinitely. His fingers found the blackwood box in his pocket and caressed its smooth surface. They gave, and they took away. It was ever the case.
The Church was his life, but as usual his desires were pushed aside. Would he ever be able to settle down? To focus on healing again?
Chapter Two
Tests of Faith
AN HOUR’S RIDE FROM Nagorn City, Aldric reached the small village of Cranford, familiar to him from when he was a young boy. Half an hour beyond that, he arrived at his childhood home. There was no other place he would rather be—if it had remained as he remembered. But nothing stayed the same; change was inevitable. He knew this for truth, as solid and immutable as stone. Before he went away for so long, he needed to see his parents and provide what comforting words he could to his sister, who still lived with them. He couldn’t stay for long, just as he also knew he could never return to his previous life.
The little brick house stood on a slight rise, surrounded by a dozen mature maple trees whose brilliant red leaves blanketed the ground. He could see a number of trails through them made by human footsteps: one from the rickety wooden gate to the front door, another from the porch to the sizable barn at the side, one to the well and its hand-pump, and the fourth to the outhouse. Aldric had spent many an hour working the pump for water until his arms burned, and emptying sewage from the outhouse into the fields.
His gaze took in the dilapidated fence and gate, the corrosion on the metal parts of the pump. The barn door was ajar even though evening was fast approaching. He sighed and shook his head. All tasks someone should have taken care of if they cared about their work and their family. Or if they had a son to help.
He strode to the side of the house and collected an armful of wood from a dwindling pile inside a lean-to—itself slanted dangerously to one side and missing a few shingles.
At the front door, Aldric paused, swallowed the lump in his throat, put on a smile, then knocked.
Movement sounded inside. A chair scraping on the floor. A man’s gruff voice.
“Who is it?” asked his mother through the door.
His father hadn’t even bothered to answer the door himself when a stranger knocked at sunset.
“It’s me, Ma. I’m sorry to turn up unannounced—”
The door swung open, and Aldric found himself smothered in a hug despite his armful of wood. His mother’s scent enveloped him—wood smoke and spices, a mix of perfumes from her flowers—and for an instant he was transported back to his youth. He squeezed her waist with his free arm, noting she had lost weight.
“Close the bloody door, Hesketh!” shouted his father. “You’re letting the heat out.”
“Oh, pipe down, Bastian.” Aldric’s mother wiped tears from her eyes and kissed him on both cheeks. Her gray hair was tied back in a braid, and her dark gray weather-worn face bore extra wrinkles since he’d last seen her. “Don’t mind your father,” she murmured. “He’s—”
“I know,” Aldric replied, more harshly than he’d intended.
Hesketh led him inside and closed the door. Nothing much had changed. The same oak table and chairs stood in the center of the room; the same faded burgundy armchairs in front of the fire, which had burned down to coals. The once plush rug from the far southern city of Gessa, where his father was born, was slightly more stained and faded.
Hesketh wore what Aldric could have sworn was the same dress he’d last seen her in, but he noti
ced it was less frayed. She was comfortable with the style, he guessed. Bastian’s shirt and trousers were grubby and sweat-stained; and from the look of his dirty hands, arms, and face, he hadn’t washed up before supper.
Aldric busied himself stacking the wood beside the fireplace. When he finished, Hesketh had prepared a plate of stew for him and placed it on the table in front of an empty chair. He’d been expecting to see his sister, but there was no sign of her.
“Where’s Kittara?” he asked. “I was hoping—”
“She isn’t here,” said Bastian curtly. He used a crust of bread to sop up brown gravy on his plate, gnawed off a chunk and chewed.
Aldric gritted his teeth and took a breath. “Where—”
“Probably cavorting with some layabout.”
Hesketh sat and placed a hand on Bastian’s arm. “Kittara’s helping the village healer harvest and dry herbs. She’s taken a liking to it.”
Bastian scoffed. “Waste of time. She should learn what you did, Aldric. Maybe then she’d be of some use.”
Aldric caught the flash of irritation on his mother’s face before she covered it with a strained smile.
“Well,” she said, “sit, Aldric. Eat. Tell us what’s happening in the world. How are you?”
“It’s not something you can learn,” Aldric told his father as he joined them at the table. “But you know that.”
He picked up his spoon and pushed a few small chunks of meat and carrot around the plate. He wasn’t hungry. The stew was thinner than he remembered, mostly gravy bulked out with barley. Empty whiskey jugs sat beside the door, and there were three stoppered jugs on a shelf. A cheap brand, but not the cheapest. So money wasn’t too tight, then; and it shouldn’t be, with the coin he sent home every month. If his father began making his own spirits, then Aldric would worry.
Bastian sniffed, then coughed. “It’s sunset. Don’t you have to be outside?” He raised both hands into the air, wiggling his fingers. “You know, the god’s power.”
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