A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  She knows. The thought tolled like a bell striking the hour as he finished dressing. She knows. She knows.

  A useless bit of anxiety, serving no purpose. He'd always known she'd find out. Hel, he'd been counting on it. His arguments stood ready, his nonchalance well-rehearsed.

  She knows, he thought as he completed the ensemble by setting his regent's crown upon his own head, and then: So be it.

  "Kneel for His Highness Isaic Gregor, Fourth of His Name, Heir Apparent and Prince Regent of Darnoth," Melakai called as Isaic entered the throne room. He was the senior Crownwarden, standing to the left of the throne; as Isaic approached, Harad took his own place on the throne's right.

  Every knee bent, and Isaic scanned the room in the resulting quiet. He had held court like this four times over the last two months, and aside from Harad, there had never been a single presence from the Church in attendance. Now there was: his childhood tutor, Mother Angelica.

  There she is. He took his seat on the throne. Jan was right.

  "I grant you leave to rise." As the gathered petitioners regained their seats, Isaic raised his voice above the shuffle. "Mother Angelica," he called. "Always a pleasure to see you."

  Her pained smile didn't touch her eyes. It gave him a pang of regret—precisely the response it had been designed to provoke. Knowing this allowed him to ignore it. I'm wise to your tricks, he thought, returning a tight smile of his own. The glances and the sad smiles were just the beginning, though. No doubt he was in for an earful when the day's session ended.

  "Mentus Petyrson, complainant, and Yellow Degnar, defendant, Your Highness." As the two men approached, Isaic could hardly tell them apart: swarthy, ruddy, bearded, the stink of sweat and field work like a cloud around each of them. He spared a quick glance beyond them to Mother Angelica, whose aghast look forced him to choke back a cackle.

  Their presence here was a scandal, no doubt of it, and the room was full of more like them. But their coin was good, and they had no lack of disputes. Three crowns per case and ten percent of any judgment—cheaper than the Order of Judgment's required donation, and just low enough a rate that the more well-to-do commoners could afford it. With luck, it would even become a kind of status symbol amongst the populace.

  But most importantly, that was the throne's money. Not hers, he thought, with a final glance at Angelica. Then he turned his attention from the woman who had taught him sums as a child, and focused on the matter at hand: five uninterrupted hours of squabbling peasantry.

  Petyrson's sheep dog had dug up his neighbor's field. Ellen Glorfell blamed Herbert Ronson's goat for breaking her fences. The Gorse brothers had begun undercutting each other's carpentry businesses, in violation of their mutual contract, and a basic arithmetic error (assuming seven shells to a crown, instead of the proper eleven) had caused one Duroch Halibar to underpay a loan remittance by a full five crowns. This last perked Isaic up somewhat—although the loan dispute was a private matter between individuals, the complainant was affiliated with Gregor's Bank of Darnoth. A finding in the complainant's interest could generate good will at the Bank, possibly spurring them to bring their own cases before the throne and—with luck—ultimately wrest their contract business from the Order of Judgment entirely.

  It was a long-term goal, of course; nothing he could achieve in an afternoon. All the same, the Bank's name was a welcome respite from the deluge of commoners and simpletons. It was a wonder some of them had managed to find their way to the palace at all, let alone scrape together the hearing fee. This is beneath me, he thought more than once as he listened to their incessant, trivial concerns. I am the Prince Regent, for Akir's sake. But every time this hubris entered his mind, he remembered the money he was wringing out of them—money they were voluntarily paying him, instead of being taxed for; money that might have otherwise gone to the Church—and persevered.

  By the time Melakai called an end to the day's proceedings, inviting those still waiting to return on the morrow, the palace coffers had been enriched by more than 100 golden crowns. Barely enough to feed an army for a day, sure—but his best take for a single day's hearings yet, and a respectable sum when added to the nearly 200 he'd brought in over the first part of the week. There is something to this, he thought as he watched the remaining petitioners file out. Father should have done it years ago.

  "You are very fair, my prince." Mother Angelica's sad smile now held a whisper of pride. "You've a commanding air, a clear interest in justice. You mediate well. If you had been born differently, the Order of Judgment would be lucky to have you."

  "Thank you, Mother." The words left a sour taste on his tongue. It had been five years since his birth mother had died, but he was still loathe to loan her title to anyone else—even the priestess who had raised him. "But there's no need for that. I'm happy to hear from the people at my throne."

  The smile turned brittle. We'll get to that, her eyes said. "I'm glad to see you finally using your sums—I told you they'd be helpful one day."

  His laugh was honest. "That you did." The room was mostly empty now, the last few stragglers being shooed out by the guards at the door. He let the smile linger on his lips as he said, "Go on, then. You didn't come here to pay me compliments. Out with it."

  She pursed her lips, eyes darkening. Although Jan had been on the receiving end of it more often, Isaic had endured plenty of punishment just after seeing that expression. Those had been for missing class, though, or backtalking. He was an adult now, and she was a stooped old woman, and his transgressions had grown to match. He instinctively braced for the worst.

  "You know better than this."

  He feigned surprise with just a hint of indignation, a response he had practiced well. "Better than what?"

  "Don't pretend. I know you too well."

  Now he fought to keep the surprise off his face. The direct approach, he thought. Didn't expect that.

  "You are no child, Isaic. You are Prince Regent. You hold the crown in your father's absence."

  Isaic. She had foregone the honorific. Despite his preparation, it got under his skin. "I'm well aware."

  "I know you are. And you're aware of everything I'm about to tell you: that there is no need for this, that if you'd wanted to stretch your reach and sit in judgment, you could have coordinated with the Church, where these hearings belong."

  Another argument he'd prepared for. "I saw no need to impose," he answered, perhaps too quickly. "With the King overseas we all have more responsibilities. I simply thought it best―"

  "You thought. With no consultation, no coordination, you decided to upend centuries of precedent? You're confusing the people. The Church has always handled such matters. Without clear communication from both the throne and the Church, the peasantry doesn't know the proper avenue for its disputes."

  Yes, I thought, he wanted to answer. I'm the one wearing the crown. But that wasn't completely true, he knew: the Fatherlord wore a crown as well. "Much of the peasantry can't afford the Church's donations. Five crowns per grievant? Only tradesmen or nobility have that sort of coin. I allow them to split the fee, a crown and a half each. It's not as though I'm taking cases from the Church. These people have nowhere else to bring their grievances. Their scuffles end up getting sorted at swordpoint by the Blackboots." He winced inwardly. It had been a mistake to mention taking cases from the Church. She'd maneuvered him toward it with that comment about confusion, and he'd stepped right in it. He'd never intended to even admit the possibility. He tried to rally. "As for confusion, there is none. The announcements have been very clear: matters of finance, property, or breach of contract only. No claims in excess of 200 crowns." For now.

  "All of which are in the Church's jurisdiction." Angelica shook her head. "This has to stop, Isaic. I know you're young and headstrong. I can only imagine how powerful that crown must feel. But your father understands the need to coordinate with the Church. It benefits both the throne and the tower—it has for a very long time. You seem to be doing
your best to tear it down, and he'll be none too pleased to repair the damage when he returns."

  Breezy nonchalance. That's what he had planned for. He was going to channel his brother, pretend half the brains in his head had fallen out, and claim he simply couldn't see the harm.

  But Melakai was still in the room, along with a smattering of other Crownwardens and the odd peasant still gathering his materials. This entire conversation would be the grist of every scullery maid's rumor mill within an hour, and Angelica wasn't being the whiny sop he had expected. Calling him young and headstrong? Threatening him with his father? She was calling him to heel in front of the whole palace—Hel, in front of the whole kingdom—cutting him down to size in a way that completely undermined his authority. Once word got out about this, it wouldn't matter what he decided with regard to public arbitration—no one would respect him enough to seek it.

  He let the mask drop, let just a hint of anger heat his words. "If my father's upset when he returns, he is welcome to words with me. Until that happens, Angelica, I remain the regent. I set policy, and I have already decided several disputes under said policy. I will continue to do so, and the Church, as a subject of the throne, will honor those resolutions."

  The blood drained from Angelica's face. Thought you'd just clap your hands and I'd roll over, didn't you? Isaic thought. Turns out this dog has some bite in him.

  He went on: "Further, next time you have an issue you wish to discuss, you will bring it to me in private."

  "You . . . invited me to speak, Your Highness." All the backbone had fled her voice. It was sad, in a way, seeing an old woman reduced to stammering and retreat like that. He answered her excuse with a long glare, until she finally glanced away, nodding her concession.

  Let Jan's scullery maids talk about that, Isaic thought as he watched her fairly flee the room. The encounter left him invigorated. Reassured. Mother—his actual mother, not the priestess who had raised him—would've been proud.

  Maybe. Jan's warning about Shephatiah echoed in his thoughts.

  But she would be wary, too.

  ii. Angelica

  "You should've seen him." Angelica ran a finger around the lip of her wine cup, debating another sip. "This may be who he actually is, Micah." She laughed. "Shephatiah will have his hands full."

  "Have you told him yet?" Micah's voice quavered now, she realized. The long face that had always seemed so wise and inviting had suffered an onslaught of smiles and frowns. They had carved themselves into him, and now even his cheeks drooped beneath his beautiful hazel eyes. Inside, the man she had loved twenty years ago still thrived, his wits as sharp as ever, but outside, he . . . well. He was as old as she was.

  How did that happen? The question wasn't for him, or herself, or even for God. It just was, like a part of her mind had partitioned itself off to ask it over and over: When did we become like this? How is this even possible?

  She steered herself away from agonizing over the past. It would be too easy to lose herself there; she knew from experience. "Shef?" She suppressed a shiver of revulsion at the thought of the man. "Mercy, no. And hopefully I'll never have to."

  "He'll find out eventually," Micah said gently. "Truth be, it's a small miracle he hasn't yet."

  "And it's better that he hear it from me. I know."

  Micah took her hands. She hated when he did that—it reminded her too acutely of everything she'd lost, everything for which she'd never even reached. But she loved it, too. She always would. "You've handled him deftly. Much better than you give yourself credit for."

  Angelica snorted. "I handle him by ignoring him. It's hard for him to reach me in the palace—that's why I took the assignment."

  "I know. But he still hates you, Angelica. He'll hurt you if he can."

  She nodded and pulled her hands away. "You're right. I know. I'll handle it." She took that sip of wine, relished the thrill of false heat it sent through her, and tried to refocus. "But for now, I'm talking to you. M'sai?"

  Her reading room was always quiet, but at night like this, with the door closed, it became her private retreat. A narrow window overlooked the palace garden, now shining with evening moonlight. The cozy room had two comfortable chairs and a small table, but what she loved the most about it was its four bookshelves—laden not with scripture or dreary textbooks, but her favorite novels.

  Micah followed her lead and pulled back into his chair. He was a welcome addition to the room, old or no, and it always gave her a little thrill to see him here. "M'sai," he said. "Are you worried for his safety?"

  Angelica sighed. "I don't know. Yes, I suppose. Shef will have little patience for a headstrong king. Yeros even less."

  "But he's not king yet."

  She threw him a wry look. "A fact I tried to remind him of today. He had little interest in hearing it."

  "Well, when his father returns, I imagine he'll straighten out quickly." Micah turned contemplative. "Why is he doing it, do you think?"

  She spread her hands. "He's got power, however temporarily. He wants to taste it. His mother planted the seed in his head, and I never quite managed to uproot it."

  "You think that's all it is? A young man chafing against authority, who happens to have a crown on his head?"

  "What else could it be? He's not gaining anything. These mock trials, that business over the winter with the redwarts—they're just games. It's not as though he's shifting the dynamic of power."

  "No." His eyes were somewhere else, his thoughts distant.

  "Micah," she said. "Tell me."

  He came back, looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, and leaned forward with sudden urgency. "Why did you join the Church?"

  The question took her aback. "I . . . well, I worked my first miracle at ten. My mother―"

  "No. No dogsehk. It's you and I, here. Why did you join?"

  "I―" A nervous laugh escaped her. "I don't know what you're getting at, Micah."

  "I heard the call of God. I felt a need to help people. I wanted to heal them, to guide them. I wanted to make the world a better place."

  "Well, of course. That's why the Church is here."

  "Is it?" Micah shook his head slowly; she wasn't certain he even knew he was doing it. "I'm not so sure."

  "Micah . . ." They'd had many private conversations over the years, confessed secrets to each other that only their Preservers could hear. But this felt deeper, somehow. Dangerous. "Is this why you came tonight? Is it what you wanted to talk about?"

  "Angelica, please. Tell me. Why did you join? Did you want power? Did you want to write the laws, to raise the Gregor princes?"

  She sighed, resisting the question—and then, slowly, it came back. The little girl praying at her bedside, the one who'd loved everyone, the one who had wept when she'd first received her gift. "No. I just wanted to do good." Her first miracle had been glorious, life-changing; she had never felt so strong in her faith or so certain of her intentions as when she'd been ten.

  "Yes. Yes. And do you feel like you've done that?"

  No. An automatic response. Visceral. Not even close. The years of seminary, the relentless indoctrination, all of it taking the notion of good and grinding it to dust. She'd been taught that the people outside the Church were sheep. Subhuman. Their needs less important than hers, their beliefs inferior, their sins worse. And as the teachings ground away at her childhood beliefs, the growing reality of her place in the Church had been its own special horror.

  When she'd worked her first miracle, she'd actually felt blessed to be a girl. Female miracle-workers were so rare that God had to have a special calling for her, she thought. But that belief, too, had been beaten out of her—under the endless leering looks of her teachers, their constant belittling tongues, and, eventually, of course . . .

  She had been raped for the first time at the age of twelve: a fervent, brutal affair in the back of Father Jonas's censure cabinet. He had told her it was her fault. It's your body, you see. Those words had staye
d with her every moment since. It's your body. Her sin was simply waking in the morning with breasts.

  And yet she'd stayed, even as her childhood dreams had fallen to ash, because the alternative—to have the power of miracleworking but be forbidden from using it—was the only thing worse.

  "Angelica?" Micah lifted a gentle hand toward her and she flinched away.

  "No. Is that what you want to hear? No. Of course not. Reality doesn't match any little girl's fairy tale world. We all had to grow up. Why? Why are we talking about this?" Didn't he understand she had spent decades trying to forget?

  "Because maybe things can be different." He watched her face, maybe hoping for some sign that she wanted him to go on, but he had dredged up too much old pain for her; she couldn't play his game right now. He went on anyway: "I never wanted to make people beg, Angelica. To watch them die in the streets of a disease I could cure with a prayer. I never wanted to drive them to turn on each other, accuse their own children of witchcraft, I never wanted to watch as my fellows dragged them from the streets and killed them."

  "It was the Rending," she said automatically, the words so well-ingrained in her that they practically spoke themselves. "We're in the last days, you know that."

  "And that excuses this kind of brutality?" He threw out his hands. "I was ready, I really was. After the Rending. It was a fighting retreat against all the forces of darkness, just like the Fatherlord said. We all heard Him. We could all see the signs, in the sun, in the earth." She remembered, too: shadows falling against the sun. Crops dying overnight. Signs she still saw today, omens growing so common that the people now had a name for them: Stormsign. "But it's been nearly ten years now. As of this spring, can you believe that? Ten years. And we're still here. Even after that second Rending, last fall, there's been no change. We take more. We watch the Tribunal kill more witches. We hear the screams of the people they torture—but the world still hasn't ended."