A renewed fear for Lyseira and Seth rose up in him. There were so many people at Sanctaria that he could hear them here, two miles or more away. If something went badly, if the Fatherlord or someone else recognized them and turned the crowd against them . . .
It would be the mob in Keldale, but a hundred times worse. There would be no escape. That night still invaded his dreams. The shouts from the mob echoed again in his head now: Burn him! Burn him!
"This is perfect." Syntal had finally let her ring go and smiled at him in relief. "I never would have guessed it would be this empty! If it's like this at the Hall, too . . . it couldn't get any better!"
"Yeah," Angbar said. "Everyone must be on the March. I hope Lyseira and Seth don't have any trouble."
Syn nodded, her exuberance undampened by his concern.
In the weeks since Angbar had quit scribing, Syntal had continued to work for Mistress Zandra on a near-daily basis. She had made a great deal of money—even after paying for the slates and Seth's placeholder at the temple, more than five crowns jingled in her pockets now—but she must have also spent more time familiarizing herself with the route to the Hall, because now she led him through a dizzying maze of twisting streets and back alleys, darting around each corner like she'd been born to it.
Finally they came to a broad, empty boulevard on a gentle slope. Angbar didn't recognize it until he saw a familiar tower just down the hill, enclosed by a triangular stone wall. The Hall of the Council. Syntal was right; save for a couple guards at the gate, it was practically empty.
"I see two guards down there," he said. Even now, some idiot voice in his head still tried to pretend this information might dissuade her, but it was quiet, and he didn't really believe it.
"I see them. Come on, we'll circle around behind." She ducked back into the alleyway from which they'd just emerged. "There's three gates, one on each wall, but they're probably all guarded," she explained as she took them down a narrow street that ran parallel to the main boulevard. It was terraced, with long, broad landings that descended apace with the slope. "Don't worry. I have a plan."
She glanced around, but they were still alone. A line of little balconies lined the second story of the buildings to either side of them, some with laundry hung out to dry or small potted plants perched near the rail, but none of them had occupants.
"No sun today," Syn commented, as if observing a mild wind. Angbar followed her eyes and saw a stain of light marking the cloudless sky where the sun should be. It illuminated the city well enough, but the brilliant glare of the sun itself was nowhere to be seen.
"Well, that's a new one," he muttered.
"More Stormsign," Syn said—a term they'd heard since arriving in Tal'aden. "Might be good for us."
Or maybe it's a warning, he thought. A reminder that we have no idea what we're actually unleashing here.
"Here." Syntal cut right, through a tucked-away courtyard not too different from the one Lyseira used as a classroom in Red Quarter, and then drew up. Just past her, Angbar made out the two guards, now only fifty feet away. He ducked back to avoid being seen.
Syntal pressed her back to the wall, furiously twisting her ring. "All right. M'sai. This is it. Be ready."
"What are we―" Angbar started, but Syntal had already begun to chant. He knew the spell immediately; it was the one that would prevent her eyes from becoming vibrant when she chanted further. "Syn?"
She ducked around the corner, chanting quickly, hands flashing. Slumber. He recognized it just as the two guards crumpled to the ground.
What if that hadn't worked? he thought. Sometimes people resisted the chants. He didn't know why or how that could be true—commands from the Pulse should be absolute—but nevertheless, he'd seen it happen more than once. What if they'd turned this direction and seen us? What if they'd shouted "Witch!" and—
"Now!" Syntal whispered. "Hurry!" She burst into a loping jog, cutting across the cobblestones toward the fallen guards.
The cover of the side street fell away as he followed, leaving them completely exposed on the empty boulevard. It sloped upward to their right, a gaping expanse of invisible threats.
I don't like this, he thought. I don't like this, I don't like this . . .
They reached the wall, giving them cover from the west side of the street, at least—but somehow that felt even worse, as though one of their avenues of escape had been cut. He tried not to think about it, to just stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
When they finally reached the guards, Syntal knelt. Her fervent search for the keys lasted an eternity, as Angbar stood with his back to the wall, scanning the empty street and the hundreds of closed doors that lined it.
"Hurry," he whispered. "Come on."
The gate was made of wrought-iron bars, set into an archway within the stone wall. Syntal searched the guards directly in front of it. If someone inside happened past while patrolling the grounds . . .
"Syn," he hissed. "Come on!"
"Got 'em," she announced. The keys clinked in the lock like a crack of thunder; he was sure they had heard it at the other gates, that it had echoed all the way back to Southlight. One of the fallen guards stirred in his sleep, actually shifting without waking to use his arm as a pillow.
Angbar thought he was going to lose his lunch.
"All right," Syntal breathed. For a wonder, the gate didn't creak when she opened it. "Come on, come on, come on."
They darted through and she locked the gate again behind them, then reached through the bars to attach the key ring back to the guard's belt.
"What are you doing?" Angbar demanded.
"Might buy us some extra time. If they wake while we're inside, they won't think anything's amiss. They'll have their keys, and the gate will be locked."
"Yeah, but they'll still have passed out in the middle of their watch, Syn! They're going to know something's happening!"
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll just think it was Stormsign."
Stormsign? Was she out of her mind? "Stormsign doesn't make you pass out!"
"It doesn't make the sun disappear, either."
From a bird's eye, the tower would've looked like a circle within a triangle. Coming in as they had at the center of one of the triangle's sides, the tower entrance—an impassive rectangular archway, with a set of broad double doors—was just ahead of them, down a short stone path. Two pairs of weathered statues flanked this brief walkway. Something about them reminded him of the ones outside the Safehold.
Syntal started for the door. "Come on."
"How are we going to get back out?"
"Take the keys again, if the guards are still out, otherwise—I can Hover us out." She pointed along the stone wall, to the far point where it met the next wall. "At the corner, like I did when we were leaving the Safehold."
If we can hover right over the wall, why didn't we just do that to get in here? he wondered, but she had reached the tower to find the doors locked. She had to run back to the sleeping guards, reach through the bars to get the keys again, come back and unlock the door, run back to the sleeping guards to replace the keys again . . .
By A'jhul, he thought as he watched this fevered race play out, infiltration is not our expertise.
Finally, she opened one of the doors. They slipped through into a sprawling marble entryway, bathed in gentle clericlight. The ceiling rose to a heady fifteen feet or more, allowing for four massive portraits that hung on the far wall, flanking a great open archway. The Archbishops, he guessed, even as his eye was drawn away to the grand staircases at his sides, which curled upward and inward, out of view. A statue of an angel stood at either stairway entrance, framing it in a stately archway with one of its unfurled wings. One of them brandished a spear, the other a sword and shield.
Millennia of visitors had worn a visible line of scuff marks from the entry to the central archway and the two staircases. The ceiling was yellowed from mold or bloodroot smoke, and once his initial awe of the place
wore off, he saw hints of decay in the crumbling, rounded corners of the doorways and the statues' bases. But these marks did little to lessen the overall impression; if anything, the room wore them like a wise king, one who only became more distinguished with age.
Austere. Cold. Beautiful. All the same words he would use to describe the Safehold, he realized. And indeed, something in the architecture or the sharp angles of the statues' muscular arms reminded him again of that place.
"Through here, I think." Syntal followed the scuff trail to the archway, under the damning eyes of the Church's leaders.
"The Hall of the Council?" With no tapestries or rugs to blunt the noise, every whisper and footstep echoed as he scurried after her.
"Should be. I've heard the stairs just go up to a viewing balcony."
How anyone could use the word "just" when referring to those gorgeous stairs, Angbar had no idea—but he forgot this complaint as he followed her into the grandeur of the Hall.
Here the walls gave way to a vast chamber which seemed to span the full diameter and height of the tower. No clericlight illuminated this room, leaving its far side and its distant ceiling shrouded in darkness. But a series of towering windows, set high up in the wall behind him, let in the day's strange, muted sunlight in a perfect arc across the floor, forming a distinct zone of illumination. At its apex, the point furthest into the room, was a short dais not more than a foot high, broad enough for two or three people.
As his eyes slowly adjusted, he picked out more details from the gloom beyond the arc of light: the viewing balconies Syntal had mentioned, each spanning a quarter section of the round wall and set incrementally higher than the one before it, so they slowly spiraled upward, and a trio of massive, raised desks which reminded Angbar of judges' benches, each a healthy distance from the dais but forming a rough semicircle around it.
"Looks like some kind of judgment hall," he breathed. "The light"—he turned, pointing toward the windows—"is magnified, or . . . shaped, somehow." But wasn't it strange that there were three desks for the judges? He thought the Order of Judgment normally only used one holy judge, and even if all Orders were to have a place, that would necessitate four benches, not three. Maybe the Order sometimes uses three judges, he mused, though if that were the case, Lyseira would know.
"'Master these chants,'" Syntal recited, "'and seek the third wardbook above yet beyond, where the darkness meets the light in the Hall of the Council.'" She had forgotten him, hurrying forward to the dais at the light's apex. She was enrapt now, under the same driving thrall that had gripped her just before she'd opened the second wardbook back at the Safehold. "'Where the darkness meets the light' . . ." she murmured, stepping on to the dais and searching the Hall with her eyes.
"Maybe there's some kind of clue here, pointing to something outside?" Angbar mused as he trotted to catch up. "He did say 'beyond'—maybe he meant beyond the tower itself?" His reservations were as deep as they'd ever been, but the mystery of the thing, the excitement of it, had begun to infect him.
They were close now.
Syntal turned and put the entryway behind her, facing directly into the darkness, and tilted her head up. "'Above yet beyond,'" she muttered again, her thoughts leaking from her lips and into the darkness.
He followed her gaze, then shook his head. "If there were a balcony just there, directly ahead, I'd say that had to be it." But the viewing balconies were spaced such that they fell to either side of that point—none straddled it.
"No. It wouldn't be left in plain sight like that. They would've found it ages ago. It has to be hidden, like the Safehold was. He didn't want the Church to find it, he had to hide it in a way they could never―" She fell silent, her words chasing each other in a slow echo through the vastness. Then she started chanting.
No sharp, sudden attack spell, this; her voice droned long and deep, stealing between the beats of the Pulse and claiming them for her own. She slowly lifted her upraised palm, her arm outstretched before her. Angbar's heart thrummed as he felt her power slowly build, coalescing into an undeniable command.
What is this chant? He knew it—he knew he knew it, he had seen it before—but it wasn't until the razor's edge of white light streaked from the floor, manifesting into the shocking brilliance of a Rising, that he placed it.
Of course. "Above yet beyond."
"Syn, that . . . that's brilliant."
But she was already halfway up the Rising's stairs, hurrying toward the opaque glare of the doorway at the top as if it were destiny given form.
ii. Lyseira
She should have been terrified. Her palms should have been slick, her mind racing with frantic doubts. This was it—her one chance to get close enough to the Fatherlord to ask Him for a pardon for Helix—and it meant risking her life, her freedom, and her faith. Because they insisted on coming, it meant risking the lives of her friends as well.
And yet, she wasn't frightened. Giving up the school had been the hardest part, but now, with that done, her thoughts had never felt sharper. She understood her reasons, understood the dangers. She was prepared for them. If this was the cost of her faith, she would pay it.
She glanced at Seth, whose gaze was locked forward. He hadn't been quiet about his concerns. He had badgered her night and day. But this morning he'd said nothing, made no final appeals. In the end, he respected her decision and would risk his life for it. He trusted her.
A surge of love for her brother stole through her chest. She was lucky to have him.
They walked in silence through empty streets, beneath a sunless sky. The Stormsign had to be an omen, but whether of good or ill, she had no idea. It didn't matter. The only celestial sign that mattered to her now was the manna. Compared to it, all other signs meant nothing.
Then why are you ignoring it?
Her heart quickened, the certainty of her choice suddenly wavering.
You've heard Akir's voice twice. Once on the road, when He said you need only to call on Him. And again here, when He bade you to feed the hungry in Red, body and mind.
Never did He say, "Go to the Fatherlord." Never, "Seek a pardon for Helix."
He has never defended what happened in Southlight.
In speaking to you twice, He's never defended the Church.
The streets were so quiet, she could hear the thoughts echoing in her mind.
She gave the slightest shake of her head. No. This is not the time for this. I made my decision. I decided to take the risk.
Yes, as a test of your faith. But faith in what? Akir?
Or the Fatherlord's church?
In Southlight, last autumn, Brother Matthew had told her the Church had lost its way. That they hadn't done the will of Akir in centuries. Nearly everything she had seen since then had supported his claim.
Akir didn't say, "Tell the Fatherlord about Red." He said, "Feed them."
He told you to do this. Not the Fatherlord.
If this is a test of faith in the Church, you've already failed it—in Southlight, when you questioned their decision; in Keldale, when you subverted their judgment; in Red, when you asked for manna.
You've made your decision. You know the truth.
There's no need to sacrifice your life for it as well.
The roar of the crowd had grown louder, sneaking up on them as they walked. Now, as they rounded a final corner, they saw a sea of people flooding the March, the crystal tower of Basica Sanctaria looming over them.
Seth took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze, a rare sign of affection. "M'sai," he said. "This is it. Stay close; it'll be too easy to get separated in the crowd."
He started forward, and she said, "Wait."
Helix, Angbar—mercy, even Seth, in his way—had all known months ago. Even Akir—through Matthew's voice and Marcus's deeds, through His own words!—had been trying to tell her.
Her faith in the Church was weak, shot through with cracks and rot; but now, it finally splintered. The ground could have tilted beneath
her, spilling her back down the street she'd just traveled, and it would have been less of a blow.
"We . . . no. This is madness."
Seth narrowed his eyes, peering into her. "Lyseira?"
She had contorted herself into mental knots to turn a blind eye to the Fatherlord's failings. Now, she forced herself to face them. On an honest stage, in an impartial trial, His sins were manifest.
A man of mercy? Of wisdom?
Of justice?
A coarse laugh scraped out of her throat, a sound of scorn for the girl who had believed such lies for so long.
You would surrender your faith so easily? The Abbot's voice assailed her, a phantom of the father figure who had taught her the Church's ways. You dedicated your whole life to them. From childhood, you swore your loyalty, and now you would throw it away? You would spit in the eye of Akir?
No. Not Akir. Never Akir.
But the Church didn't speak for Akir.
Blasphemy, she thought. Heresy. Apostasy.
Yes. Yes. This insight was all of those, and more.
But it was also truth.
It is the first Sacred Principle! Abbot Forthin railed. Obey the word of the Fatherlord, for He is Akir in the flesh! The Church is God! Only their chosen may speak for Him!
He hurled the commandments at her as if he could stone her to death with them—but they were lies. Nothing more than a trap made so that no one would challenge the way of things. They had precisely as much power as she ascribed them.
Yes, her faith in the Church had crumbled. But beneath it was something stronger, something the Church had tried to hide.
"Lyseira?" Seth said again.
"No." It was the only word that made sense, so she repeated it: "No." It tasted like power, like revelation. "My God," she said, looking at last at her brother. "The one thing Akir actually told me to do—the one thing—and I nearly turn my back on it for him?" She gestured vaguely in the direction of the Fatherlord's dais, buried somewhere behind the massive crowd. "No," she said again. "I'm staying. I'm teaching. I'm feeding them. That's why He brought me here." She scoffed, felt incredulity paint itself across her face. "Hel, what am I even saying? Teach them? They've been teaching me."
A Season of Rendings Page 26