A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  But by God, she could do this.

  Shortly afterward Syntal and Angbar returned, and while Syntal retired to a corner to study, Angbar watched Lyseira, his eyes intense as she spent what remained of her strength.

  She healed the last supplicant just before sundown, after turning away another five who had come seeking food. Finally, Seth placed the board across the doorway and secured it. Lyseira heard this, but couldn't see it; a dizzying patchwork of spots consumed her vision, shot through with the kind of scintillating arcs that heralded migraines. She felt feverish and nauseated, perhaps due to overtaxing herself, perhaps due to hunger.

  And yet she had never felt so fulfilled. It was as if all the compassion she had forced herself to repress during Father Annish's tenure had burst out of her. She had never been more sure that she was working God's will, or more certain He would manage the consequences. He was smiling on her now, His face like the heat of the sun.

  "We bought dinner," Angbar said guiltily once the room fell quiet. Lyseira heard the rustle of Syntal's knapsack as the other girl pulled out the food. "Carrots and cauliflower. It's not . . . I mean, we would've shared with everyone if . . ."

  "There's not enough for that," Seth said plainly. "You can't feed a whole city with one day's wages."

  "It went well, then?" Lys asked. "No trouble?" No one caught you chanting?

  "It did." Syn's face was a patchwork of smoldering afterimages. "Excellently, even. We got enough for dinner with a little extra socked away, and I was actually holding back on the copying. Didn't want to overdo it on the first day."

  "Good." The thought of Syntal chanting in plain sight all day long set Lyseira's nerves jangling, but she had to admit she had no standing to complain. Akir's miracles were no sorcery, but the consequences of getting caught were nearly identical.

  The carrots had a rich, earthy scent that actually set her mouth watering. How long had it been since she'd had vegetables? Her body was desperate for nourishment, but as she crunched into the first one she thought of all the starving people she had seen today, all the shunned homeless begging for food.

  She could vaguely make out the tidy pile of food Angbar and Syntal had brought. There was enough there for all four of them, for dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow. There was not enough to feed the entirety of Red.

  Seth spoke as though reading her thoughts. "Eat," he urged, not unkindly. "You can't help anyone if you don't help yourself."

  That night when she closed her eyes she saw Moab's weakened grandmother and the countless others throughout the day who had begged for food. She tried to escape the images, to focus on the good she had done and the joy she had felt in working Akir's miracles, but no matter what mental gymnastics she attempted her guard always slipped. Her thoughts drifted back to Moab's stark cheekbones, and she found herself staring at the ceiling.

  I need my sleep. I'm helping no one like this. She had exhausted herself today, pushed as hard as she ever had escaping Keldale or healing her friends after an arc hound attack, and she knew from those experiences that if she didn't rest, she wouldn't recover. Her vision was improving—fewer sunspots spangled the dark room than before—but her head ached in a way that told her the blindness would return quickly if she tried to work another miracle without enough sleep.

  She closed her eyes and rolled over. She couldn't afford that. There would be more people asking for her help tomorrow.

  You owe them nothing, Seth's voice tried to tell her. Worse, you're endangering us all, drawing attention. How long until the Church hears about this?

  But in response she heard Cosani's voice—You are very kind—and saw a dozen grateful faces from her work during the day. Why would they turn me in to the Church, she demanded, when the Church has done nothing but spurn them?

  Money, Seth answered. The hope of reward. With so many coming, you really believe none will betray you?

  If we're betrayed, we'll leave. We've escaped the Church before.

  You can't be flippant about this. It's serious.

  So am I.

  You're endangering yourself. Endangering us.

  I told you all not to come.

  What are you even doing here?

  Waiting for the Dedication. For a chance to speak to the Fatherlord about Helix.

  Even as she thought the words, she heard the lie in her heart. How can you still have faith in Him? she accused herself. How could all these people be starving right under His nose without His knowledge?

  They couldn't. He must know.

  No. It was more than that.

  He consents.

  And her eyes were open again.

  Mad talk. He must not know. I'll tell Him.

  He's supposed to be omniscient, Lyseira.

  The Canon says He's mortal. Omniscient, but limited by His flesh.

  If He's limited, then He's not omniscient!

  She bolted to a sitting position, her head throbbing. She backed away from her last thought like a woman on a precipice.

  No. No, no, no, no . . .

  He should already know what happened to Helix. He should already know what's happening in Red Quarter. So either He knows and doesn't care, or He's not truly omniscient. Either way, He's flawed.

  Now that—that thought—was blasphemy.

  No. There were other answers. Perhaps He knew, but this was a test for her—a test of her willingness to take risks for what she knew was right, a test of faith. And if not, then even the idea of such a test reminded her that she was no one and nothing, a sinner consumed by her own rev'naas who could never claim to understand the ways of Akir. How dare she even try?

  Akir supported what she was doing. If He didn't, why would He grant her miracles? Why would He ensure she could come this far? Akir was on her side, and the Fatherlord was Akir. She couldn't see all the pieces—couldn't possibly know His design—but she was on the right path. All the signs pointed to it.

  She released a long, calming breath, letting her faith steady her as it always did. The frantic storm of her thoughts receded. In its absence, she felt her eyelids growing heavy once more.

  He granted Marcus miracles, too. Doesn't that mean the signs point to Marcus doing His will?

  "Oh, rev'naas take it," she snarled, and gained her feet. If she wasn't going to sleep, she may as well study. She crossed to her makeshift desk, expecting Seth to reprimand her, but he must have gone outside to keep watch in the alley. For once, she was able to break expectations without a scolding.

  If anything could put her to sleep, surely it was translation work. She lit the lantern, keeping its illumination low, and opened Ethaniel's History.

  Beginning with the Blue, the following pages will lay out in detail the names and histories of several of the most prominent Kesprey of each order, dating back to the earliest records.

  Ugh. No. She was tired, but she wasn't desperate. On a lark, she flipped halfway through the book to a random page and started there instead. It was a list of rites, many of which shared a name in First Tongue with their modern counterparts. She recognized the Rite of Basaan, which dedicated an infant to Akir, and the Rite of Mor'hedaal, to impart the soul of the deceased to Akir's care. Her mother had implored her to work the latter at The Abbot's funeral, but Lyseira had refused. Though she had been allowed to study them, the rites were sacred. Only a priest could work them.

  Finally her eye caught on one she didn't recognize: Urth'saan, which translated roughly to "world's birth." It was similar to Ala'saan, Lordsbirth, a festival the faithful celebrated at the start of every year. It had been her favorite growing up—her mom had always baked cookies and cakes, and surprised her with the best gifts. Was this the same thing? Had the ancient Kesprey practiced "world's birth" instead of "Lord's birth"?

  Of course, she realized. There was no Fatherlord yet for them to celebrate.

  Intrigued but somehow troubled at the same time, she located the detailed entry for Urth'saan and began translating.

  Though the giv
ing of gifts is not a required portion of the Rite, your parish will most likely wish to engage in it. There is no harm, provided all remember the purpose of this day: to celebrate the world Akir has made for us, to revel in it, to care for it, and to thank Him for it. Children in particular will need these reminders.

  Lyseira smiled as she remembered The Abbot doling out dour reminders about the holiday's true purpose: to revere the Fatherlord. Though the meaning of each festival was different, there was something comforting about the idea that children, regardless of their specific tradition, were always more focused on the presents.

  Observe the rituals as described and allow the parish freedom to celebrate as they will, but keep an eye to the poor and hungry. If gifts are being given, see that they are not forgotten; Akir will provide you with holy bread for this purpose.

  Holy bread—in the First Tongue, manna. It had always been part of their Lordsbirth ceremonies, too. The Abbot would summon it in secret, and often Lyseira would be the one charged with parceling it out: one piece to each parishioner, to be held with reverence and taken only when the rite commanded. The bread was very filling. She had given children quarter-pieces only, so none was wasted.

  She put a finger to the passage, murmuring it beneath her breath.

  Keep an eye to the poor and hungry.

  "Can't sleep either?"

  She jumped. "God above, Angbar."

  "Sorry." Her friend sat up. In the dimness she could just make out the glint of his eyes, the flash of his white teeth. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  Lyseira took a breath to steady herself. "No. It's a'fin. You just startled me."

  He stood and came over. "Still translating?"

  "Yeah." She'd spent an hour hunched over and working, leaving her neck in knots. She leaned back and stretched.

  "So . . ." He took a seat on an old piece of rubble. "I bet Seth wasn't too excited about all your visitors today."

  She felt a wry smile crack her lips. "Not as such."

  "Where did they all come from? Were they all sick?"

  "No, actually—some had injuries, too, but . . . a lot of them were just hungry."

  "Not a lot of food in Red Quarter."

  "No."

  She and Angbar had never been the closest friends, and if she was being honest, Lyseira had spent most of their childhoods trying to convert him. Converting a heathen had been one of the requirements to join the priesthood, and in Southlight, heathens were hard to come by. He had never come around to her way of thinking, but even still, he had left everything behind to help save Helix when the time had come. Maybe, she thought, the heathens have better sense than some of the devout.

  There was that blasphemy again.

  "I wish there were more we could do." Angbar shook his head. "Syn and I earned some good coin scribing today. More than I thought we would, really. I feel guilty about it, almost, especially when I see those little ones. I want to help. It's just not . . ."

  "Not enough to feed everyone."

  He nodded. He understood. She felt something melt in her heart, some old barrier.

  "Oh, Angbar," she breathed. "What in Hel am I doing?"

  Angbar went still and silent, suddenly careful. She had never bared her heart to him like that before.

  "I put everyone in danger coming here, and for what? A chance at an audience? Even if Akir put me at the front of the crowd, even if I got that chance, the Fatherlord . . ."

  Angbar watched, waited for her to finish.

  "He knows about this, Angbar!" She threw an arm wide, taking in the crumbling walls and the sprawling suffering beyond them. "He must! The Canon says nothing happens without His knowledge, and this is His city! He lives here!"

  Angbar nodded.

  "Why would He care about Helix's suffering when He does nothing about the suffering already at His doorstep?"

  And worse, what kind of God does that make Him? Again with the blasphemy. That wasn't what she meant—it wasn't. She backed away from it, stumbling to explain herself.

  "I mean, Seth says they deserve it. That they're too lazy for honest work, or they're just drunks. And maybe that's . . . but the kids?" It was all she could do not to shout. "The little ones? What did they do? Get born in the wrong place?"

  "And all of them were kids sometime," Angbar murmured. "How long has Red Quarter been here? Do you know?"

  Lyseira shook her head. And wasn’t that strange? She had spent months studying Tal'aden at The Abbot's behest, and had never read a word about its homeless. "I'd never heard of it before we got here. But judging from some of these ruins, I'd guess a long time."

  "A lot of them are Bahiri, too—have you noticed that?"

  She had, though she'd had no idea what to make of it.

  "They don't . . . it's not like Southlight, here. They don't like Bahiri, even outside of Red Quarter."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just―" Angbar clipped the word off.

  When Lyseira thought of Angbar, she thought of the smiling, easygoing joker she had known since their childhood days playing at the lake. It was a static image, like a portrait in her mind, and even when she talked to him, she would look at the wall or the floor and substitute that portrait for his presence.

  Suddenly, she realized the portrait was out of date. For the first time in a long while—possibly the first time ever—Lyseira really saw him.

  Agitated, chewing furiously at his bottom lip. Reluctant. The easy laughter that had always been in his eyes growing up was gone.

  Is that my fault? she wondered. Did I do that to him? "It's all right. Tell me. Please."

  "They just . . . there's disdain here. I can feel it. I mean, it happened in Southlight, too. Old Maid Betsy would glare daggers at me sometimes, but there it felt like, 'Well, that's just Old Betsy.' Here, it's everywhere. Everyone."

  "What do you mean? Because you're dark?"

  Incredulity at the question flickered in Angbar's eyes. "Yes. Because I'm dark."

  Lyseira mentally reviewed the last few days. "Are you sure? I haven't noticed anything like that."

  Angbar gave a tired scoff. "Yeah, well, you're not a nog, are you?"

  "Well, no, but . . . I mean, I haven't seen―"

  "At the scribing hall today, there's these kids sitting in front of me. Four or five of them. They remind me of Baler and his goons—remember them?"

  Of course. Lyseira would never forget Baler and his goons.

  "They kept calling me a nog, talking about how I was dumb and couldn't help it, that nogs are only good with numbers. And it happened earlier, too, when we were talking to the head scribe, she said something like that—and on the street, too, the night I . . . that same night."

  "What happened? People called you a nog?" That didn't seem so bad.

  "No. Well, yes, but . . . it's not like at home. It's not just a word here, it's . . . it's like an insult."

  Growing up, Lyseira's mother had always told her not to use that word with Angbar and his family, that it was mean, but Seth and the others had used it all the time. It had never seemed to bother Angbar then. It was just a word, like describing Lyseira's skin as pale, or calling Helix a boy. She'd never understood why there was anything wrong with it.

  "I'm the only Bahiri in there, Lyseira. And I don't see a lot of them on the streets, either, though I do see some. But as soon as I get back to Red . . ." He shook his head. "They're everywhere."

  Lyseira had never seen as many nogs as she had since they'd settled in Red Quarter—that much was true. "Why? Why do you think that is?"

  "I don't know. They just don't like them, I guess." He fell silent, thinking, and eventually shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter. It's like you said: He's ignoring all of them. Everyone here. Even though He has to know what's happening."

  "I'm happy to help how I can. I just wish I could do more. I feel like the few miracles I do work are just drops in a bucket. It's not the diseases that are killing them. It's this place."

  Angbar nod
ded. "But there's nothing we can do about that. You said you don't know what you're doing here. Are you sure it still makes sense to stay?"

  She sighed. It was the question she'd been dancing around all night.

  "You know we'll stay if you do. We didn't have to come in the first place. But it's only going to get harder as the Dedication gets closer, and if you don't think the Fatherlord is going to listen, is it worth the risk?"

  No, she thought reflexively. Of course not. She should pack and walk out at first light—it was the safest course for her, for Helix, for all of them.

  Yet doing so meant giving up on the Fatherlord. It meant admitting that she thought He was as corrupt as the rest of them—as much a liar as Bishop Marcus, as much a murderer as the Justicar Galen Wick. And if that were true—

  She could barely force her thoughts to face the possibility.

  If that were true, where did it stop?

  Was the Canon filled with lies? The Chronicle? The book of Second Joshua, whose Dedication the whole kingdom was waiting to celebrate—was there a single true word in it?

  Was the Fatherlord even truly Akir? If not, what was He? And if so, ah, dear God, if so—

  The entire Church was a lie. Everything she had been taught, the foundation of her life's work, the source of her faith and her entire moral framework—lies.

  These were the real questions, the ones that could destroy her. She had been trying to stay calm, to focus on each day as it came, but all the while a storm of doubts had been battering her mind. She had been staring at the ground, watching one foot go in front of the other, because to look up meant seeing that storm: a maelstrom that blackened the sky, that threatened to annihilate everything.

  She no longer believed the Fatherlord would pardon Helix, not really. But she couldn't act on that belief without surrendering who she was.

  If He was as treacherous as His subordinates, she had to hear it from His mouth. Either way she would face a world that had lost all meaning, but she would rather die in a Tribunal prison than shatter her entire foundation without proof.