Oathbreaker

by Cara Witter

  Kenton eyed the dirt warily. “Can’t you just tell me where the damned stone is?” he muttered.

  Predictably, Kenton heard nothing, and felt only shame for having addressed a god in his own house with both a curse and an impatient demand. He sighed.

  “I, um . . . don’t know the right way to do this,” Kenton murmured, more breath than voice. “The right words, or . . . or language, even.”

  He looked around self-consciously. No one appeared to be paying him the least bit of attention. He tried not to think about what Perchaya would say if she found him talking to dirt. Then again, she alone, out of all of them, might understand. If he hadn’t bungled things so terribly, she’d probably be here with him now.

  But things as they were, Kenton was on his own. “Well . . . um, if you’re hearing this at all, I suppose you must know who I am.” His throat was starting to itch, too, and he cleared it with a cough. “And what I’m trying to do. For, um . . . for the prophecy, and the world. For my family, and what he did to them. What he did to me.”

  The woman to his side stood, and Kenton sat back on his heels, silent while she passed by. The man in front continued his tracings, muttering to himself. The chapel felt too still, too quiet.

  “I think, um . . . well, that’s the thing. After this is all done, after we’ve fought and won . . . well, if we’ve managed against all hope to do so, I just—” His still-running nose held the tickle of a coming sneezing fit. “I wonder . . . what’s left for me?” The question emerged, the nagging feeling creeping out from the deep place he had carefully stowed it away. The real question. “My people are gone, my family. My life. When it’s all over, what . . . what am I, really? What is my purpose then?”

  He waited, his breath caught, listening for anything, straining for any answer, any connection, any feeling at all. The gods were real, but he had no idea if they could hear him, much less if they cared. It wasn’t even the question he’d come here to ask, but it was one that he knew needed answering.

  You’ll be dead, Kenton told himself. You’re going to die killing Diamis, just as you meant to all those years ago.

  The tickle in his nose that had been growing stronger with every word burst into a sneeze so sudden and hard that he bit his tongue.

  Kenton cursed loudly. It echoed in the chapel and drew more glares, even from the pained man who had completed the Path of Remorse. He moved as far from Kenton as he could manage, clicking his dice accusatorily. A few Sisters whispered amongst themselves, and one giggled. Apparently they understood at least some Sevairnese.

  Kenton’s face grew uncharacteristically warm; he wasn’t used to being embarrassed, to caring what others thought of him. He still didn’t, really. Not these people, with their careful prayers and judgmental glances. But the gods . . . he realized now that he did care what they thought of him. If they thought of him.

  He decided to try again. “I know I haven’t come to you before, to any of you. I haven’t . . . I haven’t always agreed with you, even in your choice in bearers.” He thought of his argument with Saara in the throne room, while Nerendal pulsed mutely on. And Jaeme, not looking, not trying, as if he willfully wanted to hinder the quest.

  “I’m doing all I can, and I just need to know if it’s enough. If I am to you what my father was, or my mother, or . . . any of them. We were the guardians of your word, once. We were the keepers of your secrets and the administrators of your will.” His quiet voice cracked, and a small note of desperation crept in. “I know I’m not your chosen. But I’ve tried to be your champion.” He licked his dry lips. “Please.”

  Long moments passed as he waited.

  Waited for nothing. Stillness in the dirt. Stillness in himself. His chest felt hollow, and his eyes burned.

  He swiped at his nose, glared at the mute ground. “Forget it, then,” he muttered. “Forget I asked.” Brushing the dirt off his pants, he stood and stalked back to his boots and sword, ignoring the veiled Sisters and the robed priests bustling quietly about.

  He walked toward the door, ignoring the whispers of the priests and priestesses around him, Kenton heard Perchaya’s words in his mind.

  You should talk to Jaeme.

  Kenton slowed his step, lingering in the chapel for a few moments longer than were necessary. He couldn’t be sure if it was the will of the gods or simply of Perchaya, but as he thought about it now, Kenton realized it didn’t matter. Perhaps the gods could hear him, or perhaps not. Perhaps they refused to answer, or perhaps they were unable. Perhaps, like Nikaenor, he ought to see answers in everything, or perhaps he was correct in believing that humankind was largely on its own.

  Whatever the case, it didn’t change what needed to be done. What Kenton needed to do. Not because he was chosen, but because he was here, and he knew, and he cared.

  He’d talk to Jaeme again. He’d talk to him a hundred times if that’s what it would take. Jaeme had been chosen by Kotali, but Kenton had been chosen by fate, by death, by tragedy, and by Diamis himself who, somehow, miraculously, had failed to have him killed when he was just a small child. Jaeme could doubt, but Kenton wasn’t here for him. He was here for his people, for his lost family, and for the rest of the world.

  And if he still struggled for it with his dying breath, Kenton wasn’t going to give up on that.

  Forty-five

  Perchaya sat at a small reading table in Grisham’s library, hunched over her copy of the Banishment Chronicle. It was ridiculous, really, running from her failed conversation with Kenton straight to a book he’d given her, but she had to do something, and Kenton himself didn’t have any answers, about the godstone, or about whatever had possessed him at the ball. That much was clear.

  Perchaya’s eyes kept drifting to sketches she’d begun earlier in the wide, blank margins—a portrait of Sayvil surrounded by scrolling bursts meant to suggest the force of her light, the first tendrils of flame rising from an image of Saara’s hand, though something was off with the third and fourth fingers and Perchaya had not yet fixed the anatomy.

  But she wasn’t here to sketch—the silk gloves she had to wear when out of her room made it difficult, anyway. It was the words she needed to focus on, not the artwork. And certainly not the man who had been so thoughtful as to give her the book.

  Stop, she chided herself. Stop thinking of him. He has made it perfectly clear that he regrets that kiss.

  And you have a job to do.

  She couldn’t help Jaeme find Kotali, couldn’t do much to help Daniella feel better about how strangely tense things had become between her and Jaeme. And Perchaya could barely even talk to Kenton, let alone help him with his mad quest to find the stone himself.

  So she decided to utilize the library’s collection of Banishment Chronicle commentaries and histories—many of which, she was pleased to see, were in Sevairnese—to see if any scholars had insights that might answer the questions about why Diamis needed her and Kenton.

  The Chronicle made clear that the Drim had been part of locking away Maldorath. She traced her fingers over the verse once more: The God of Blood is cast out and bound, the lock held fast through the power of the Drim. Weep, world, should that lock be broken.

  It made sense, then, that if some power in the Drim were keeping the god locked away, then killing them should break that lock. But when Diamis had Perchaya in his possession, he hadn’t killed her. He’d tried to use blood magic on her and then tried to cut off her finger, yes, but hadn’t bothered to see if the ring protected her from any other form of bodily harm. If all that was required was their deaths, then killing them should have taken priority over retrieving Daniella, even if she was Diamis’ ultimate weapon.

  Perchaya tried not to remember that day in Tir Neren, the way the blood of so many had coated her skin, slicked through her hair, as she held onto her shaking friend in the throne room. She already had too many nightmares about that, far
more than she’d ever admit to Daniella.

  Perchaya pushed aside the slim volume by a Sevairnese scholar from a hundred years ago and pulled a thicker and more recent commentary from the small stack she had gathered on the table. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, cursing how much the scholars must dearly love the sounds of their own voices. She had no idea how Daniella could spend so much time with dense texts like these, let alone enjoy them.

  A loud creaking followed by a sharp thump startled her out of her tiredness.

  She whirled around to see a gray-robed priest of Kotali standing by one of the shelves, his hands wrapped around the wood sides of one of the tall library ladders.

  “Apologies, good Lady,” the priest said, his round face flushed. He spoke in accented Sevairnese, so clearly he knew she wasn’t native to Mortiche. “These ladders are quite solid. I appreciate that they can hold bulk like mine—” He patted his rather large belly “—but they can be beastly to move.”

  Perchaya smiled at him. “Can I offer any help?”

  “A dozen thanks, but I think I have it now.” He adjusted the small corn silk covering over his balding head. Wisps of graying hair escaped from the sides, an equally wispy goatee on his face, like his mouth was framed by a small raincloud. He sighed, looking upwards to the shelves that stretched nearly to the high ceiling. “The Grisham library is one of the best in Mortiche, thanks to Duke Greghor, but I’m beginning to think he places all the books I will need on the topmost shelves on purpose!”

  The man’s laugh was so infectious that Perchaya couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Perhaps Duke Greghor shares a sense of humor with his nephew. That sounds like something Jaeme would do for a lark.”

  “Indeed!” The priest chuckled. “I didn’t have a chance to tutor the boy myself—I spent many years at the chapel at Haidshir—but the other priests have their share of stories about young Jaeme. You are one of the companions of the Lady Daniella, correct?”

  “Her lady-in-waiting,” Perchaya said.

  “Well met,” the priest said with a short bow. “I’m Senric, Fourth Brother of Stone.”

  “Perchaya,” she replied simply. She wasn’t sure of Mortichean religious titles or how one properly addressed them, but Senric seemed the friendly sort, unconcerned with pomp. He smiled, a gentle grin that reminded her of her father.

  “Well, good lady Perchaya, I will leave you to your studies. And I will scale this mountain of books and come back triumphant or perish trying!”

  “Good luck,” she said, returning the grin. “Sir Senric of the Library Ladder.”

  He laughed again, a deep booming sound, and began climbing the ladder. Perchaya turned back to her book, to a page discussing the various theories about how the Drim power functioned as the lock to Maldorath’s prison. This scholar said many of the same things the others had derived from the Chronicle—that the power to seal away Maldorath needed to go somewhere, but also needed to be dispersed to keep him imprisoned. The Drim, as the chosen people of the Four, became the carriers of that power.

  The power, thus spread out among the Drim Families, could not be accessed by any one Drim alone, and the lock would remain secure, even were some to become corrupted. A worthy plan, indeed, but even the Four themselves knew that no lock was impenetrable. The very existence of the prophesied bearers speaks to this.

  After all, power dispersed could potentially be brought together again, made whole. Unlikely though it may seem that the Drim would ever come together for such a purpose as freeing the God of Blood, perhaps the Four knew the failings of humanity enough that they planned for even that most incredible of contingencies.

  Perchaya pursed her lips. The Drim hadn’t become corrupt blood mages, no matter what charges Diamis leveled against them. And they certainly hadn’t “come together” in any way to free Maldorath. Quite the opposite: they’d been scattered into hiding and killed.

  She was about to close the book and forget about this whole failed research attempt when some handwriting scribbled in the margin caught her eye. Two words right beside the words “come together,” underlined, with a question mark after it. She’d seen it the first time she read this, but the note was written in Mortichean, so she had no idea what it said.

  It was likely nothing. Lots of these scholarly texts had notes written in the margins from various owners over the years, or perhaps even the booksmiths themselves. But still . . .

  “Senric?” she asked, turning to look behind her again.

  The portly priest was climbing carefully down from the ladder, two books in hand. The wood creaked as he took another step down. “Yes, my good lady?”

  “There are a couple words written here in Mortichean that I don’t understand. Could I trouble you for some help?”

  “Of course,” he said, his voice a little winded as he made the final steps down.

  “Her-uhset ellahno?” She ventured, knowing even as the words left her lips that she was likely mispronouncing it.

  Senric raised a wispy eyebrow, confirming her suspicions. “Let me take a look at that,” he said gently. He peered over her shoulder. “Ah, yes. Hruest elenno.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Elenno is a group possessive, and ruest is most commonly used for blood. With the ‘h’ added before, it means more specifically ‘soul.’”

  That made sense. Most religious teachings were that the blood literally housed the soul, which was how blood mages could do so much damage with just a few drops, and also why Maldorath was god of both. “So hruest elenno—” she started, tripping over the words yet again.

  “Means ‘their souls.’”

  Perchaya sat back in the chair, stunned.

  Blood. Souls.

  Was that it? Perhaps Diamis didn’t need the Drim dead or to all be brought physically together. Maybe he needed only their blood, their souls.

  “Are you a student of the Chronicle, then?” Senric asked, his thick fingers flipping through one of the commentaries in her stack. “Being a priest, I say that everyone should be, of course, but this isn’t light reading.”

  “I, uh . . .” Perchaya was too dumbfounded to think of a decent reply. What did it all mean? Was she just grasping at some random theory, because she hadn’t found anything else of merit?

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, it’s always been a bit of an academic mystery to me. The Drim, you know. And the concept of their power holding the lock.” She didn’t see a point to trying to cover up what exactly she’d been researching. He had the commentaries in front of him. “So apparently whoever wrote this note thought that bringing the souls of the Drim together would free Maldorath?”

  Senric frowned. “It’s a theory, I suppose.”

  Perchaya paused. A priest of Kotali might have insight from his years of study, but she had to tread carefully. “With the Drim all dead now, what do you think has become of the lock? Surely Maldorath isn’t about to come for us?” She tried to keep the last words light. A joke.

  Senric gave her a small return smile. “I surely hope not, dear lady. And the scripture is open to interpretation. The power mentioned may never have passed from the original recipients during the Banishment. It may have died with them long ago, and yet the lock remained.”

  “Do you believe that?” She knew for certain that Diamis didn’t. And neither did she.

  He closed the book and set it down again on the stack. “I believe Kotali and the others of the blessed Four took all the necessary precautions they could. If the power given to the Drim family heads must pass from generation to generation, then surely if all the full-blooded Drim were killed, it would continue to pass on. Even a bloodthirsty savage such as Diamis can’t root out every person possessing a drop of Drim blood.” His jovial expression had turned sour at the mention of Diamis.

  “I see,” Perchaya said, trying to fit all the pieces together in her mind.
A puzzle that she only had parts of, and maybe some pieces that belonged to a different puzzle entirely. “But what if he could? Would someone be able to open the lock if they were all dead?”

  Senric tilted his head, watching her curiously. Maybe warily. But she couldn’t stop now. She felt like she was so close to something, like looking through a snow-frosted window to something outside that she could only make out the shape of.

  “Assuming the person who wrote this note was onto something,” she continued. “And the souls of the Drim have the power.”

  “Taking someone’s life isn’t the same as taking their soul,” Senric said, as if he was choosing each word carefully. He wiped at a few beads of sweat on his forehead. “Though that’s getting into the realm of blood magic, a discussion to which even I, Great Sir Senric of the Library Ladder, can hardly contribute.”

  But Perchaya’s eyes had widened, the thoughts churning. Was Diamis collecting their souls somehow, before killing them? Or immediately after?

  How much of a person’s blood would you need to possess their soul?

  She didn’t know much about the technicalities of blood magic, but even someone who’d been controlled by blood magic, such as Nikaenor back when Lukos attacked, still kept their soul after the magic had run its course. And despite superstition that had long since kept people burning bodies of their dead, Kenton said the blood of a dead person was no longer of use. Probably, Perchaya guessed, because the soul had fled. So Diamis had to have some way to collect the souls of the Drim, some way to keep the power intact, even with their death.

  “Of course, you’re right,” she said. “I’ll trouble myself no more about it.”

  Senric nodded and gave her a kind smile, though she noted he looked relieved.

  Perchaya tried not to visibly shudder. All those people, her people, their bodies burned, their souls trapped somewhere, unable to pass through the Shadowvale to the worlds beyond.

  If she was correct, Diamis wanted Perchaya and Kenton to join them.