He'd known the girl was still alive. He'd held out hope that maybe, one day, he could care for her.
But when her two years in Sil Tar'r ended, they sent her to work at Majesta under the care of Keeper Shephatiah. They never bothered to tell Kai. She'd been in the city for three years—had become a girl of thirteen, blooming into womanhood—before he even knew she'd returned. One day she'd simply appeared in the royal palace on errands, like a figment from his nightmares.
Every day of those five years, he had tormented himself with his failures. He had pored over every step of the story, lashing himself, trying to figure out when and how the Church had learned of Takra's miracleworking. Had he made a slip of the tongue while seeking passage for them? Had Bastion told someone he thought he could trust? Had Takra, despite all their warnings, called light again?
On days like this one, when the old wounds became fresh, those questions still tore at him. He seized on them again now, as he rode through the city, digging into them like a dog with an old bone.
Then he caught himself, and threw them away.
It had all happened nearly ten years ago, now. Bastion was never coming back. It hardly even mattered who had betrayed them; the knowledge wouldn't change anything.
What mattered was that Takra was still alive. She had never approached him, and he'd never spoken to her. He'd told himself that he would only endanger her, that she had a new life now. Pain and an old man's cowardice had kept him at arm's length. Today—now—that would change.
He rounded the final bend to Majesta's marble tower, and she was there.
Thin and severe, blond hair the color of wet hay. Seventeen, he thought. They had stolen his little granddaughter and turned her into this young woman, now cleaning the litter from Majesta's broad steps. Who was she? When she caught sight of him at the palace, did she remember him? Did she hate him for failing her?
He nearly quailed again, as he had every time he'd seen her. But something made her look up, and in her eyes he saw recognition. He would not turn away again.
"Are you looking for Mother Angelica?" she asked after he dismounted and approached.
"Takra," he said. "Do you remember me?"
She ignored the question. "She's not here, but I can let her know you came."
"No, I'm . . . not here for her. I came to see you."
A storm came into her eyes. "Why?"
"Because . . . I'm your papa, Takra." Her pet name for him, unearthed from the grave of his memories. Using it tore his heart. "Do you remember?"
She said nothing, but the conflict in her eyes grew stronger.
"I just want to―"
"You're here now?" she accused him. "You decided—now? Now you come?"
He flinched. Get out of here, old man. Leave the poor girl alone. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can go."
But she turned her back on him, and left him first.
ii. Angelica
Later that evening Angelica stood outside Shephatiah's door, hating him.
She'd done as he asked. The peasant Benjamin Ashandiel was rotting away in a city prison, putting an end to the Prince Regent's ridiculous trials. She hadn't had the heart to Cleanse him—she'd leave that to the Tribunal proper, upon their return—but regular order had finally resumed at the palace. The king's congress, who had begun cautiously looking to the Prince for leadership, now had their eyes firmly fixed on her.
She had turned it all around, restored normalcy well before the end of the Convocation in Tal'aden. Her reward? An order to deliver a weekly report. To see that repulsive mound of slime every week.
If I had known, I would have just joined Micah. A nice boast, but an empty one. She hadn't even spoken to Micah since that last night in her reading room. Probably he was scared she would turn him in, but if he thought that, he didn't know her as well as she thought he did. She actually hoped his bid to change the Church found success. He'd been right to come to her; he just hadn't realized how much of a coward she was. He thought I was still that little girl that wanted to make a difference, she thought, but there's nothing left of her.
The door stood still, unmoved by her ruminations. Her Preserver waited with the eternal patience of a rock. Finally, she knocked.
I should ask him to end these meetings. There's no need for them. If the situation changes, I can always alert him again. She truly doubted that would be the case. Isaic had crumbled at the first example of real strength from the Church, and in truth, that example had been next to nothing. If Bishop Caleb had been at his normal station, at the King's side, Isaic may have spent an evening or two in a dungeon himself.
Thankfully, it didn't come to that. She did still love the boy, even if he managed to screw his head on backward some mornings.
Impatient, she rapped on the door again. "Father?" she called.
Her thoughts ranged forward, preparing for his questions. They were always roughly the same, but she would try to make her answers more definitive this time. For example, he would ask her again about Isaic's fitness for the throne. Lucas Gregor had some summers left in him, but even the Fatherlord's miracles couldn't deny the claims of old age. Shephatiah was not above creating an accident for Isaic if necessary, similar to the one that had befallen his mother, if he felt the heir unsuitable for the throne. Such things had happened in the past. Lucas's own grandfather had been second in line for the succession.
But she truly didn't believe such rash action would be necessary. Not because she loved Isaic, although she did, but because he had clearly fallen under her thumb. There was simply no need.
And still, no answer from inside. Shef, where in Hel are you? She lifted her hand to knock a third time, growing irritated, when she heard the latch click within. The door eased open. Takra stood on the other side of it—cheeks burning, eyes downcast.
"Ah, Sister Angelica." Shephatiah stood near his desk, adjusting the fit of his robes on his shoulders. His lips gaped in a smile. "Is it time for our weekly report already? I'm afraid time got away from me."
Takra, are you well? The question no one had ever asked her. Can I help? The words burned on her tongue, but she didn't ask them, because she already knew the answers.
"Well don't keep our guest waiting, girl," Shef snapped. The bishop waddled over to throw the door wide, then ran a caressing finger through Takra's bangs. She fixed her eyes, filled with broken horror, to the wall. Shef laughed. "You silly thing, you've got your robe on backward. Run and change it. Don't forget to wash up." He moved to swat her rear, but she had already darted away.
"I apologize for the girl." He turned to plod back to his desk, huffing as if he'd just run a marathon. "Has all the sense God gave a goat, but I suppose she can't help it."
When Angelica entered the room, the smell hit her like a bucket of vomit.
Here. He was doing it in here. It took every ounce of her strength to keep the loathing from her face. Oh my God, Takra, I'm so sorry. I'm so—
"Things continue apace with our prince, I trust?" Shef squeezed himself into the chair behind his desk.
"Yes, Father."
"There was a king's congress today, yes?"
"There was." Ah, Takra. Ah, forgive me. She scrambled for more words, some sacrifice she could feed to this monster. "I handled it. The Prince kept his tongue."
"And Thorn?" For a wild instant she thought he was talking about Takra—but no, he meant her grandfather, Melakai, the Prince's hand-picked captain of the Crownwardens. What would he do, she wondered, if he knew what went on in this room?
"Quiet as a mouse. Truth be, he has no idea what to do with himself in these meetings."
Shef spread his hands, his smile like a smear of grease. "I think the situation may be under control. You've done good work, Sister."
The compliment held all the appeal of a lick on the cheek. "Thank you, Father."
"What is your assessment of his suitability for the throne?"
"He's broken. When the time comes, he'll be ready."
Shef no
dded. "Good. I concur. I think we can relax a bit, for now. Let's meet again in two weeks; I'll also send word that Bishop Marcus need not venture this way."
She murmured some assent and escaped, closing the door behind her. Her mind reeled with the image of that poor girl. I'm so sorry, she thought again, for what he did to you.
But it wasn't just Shephatiah that had hurt the girl. It was Angelica herself.
She had spent the last two months fighting for Shephatiah. She had rejected every potential attack on his power—from Isaic, from Micah, even from herself. With each victory, his hold on the Keeper's office grew stronger, and his control over Takra more absolute.
She had done this. And why? Why did she fight for the man who so deeply repulsed her? How could she see Takra's pain but refuse to stop it?
He's broken, she'd said of the Prince a moment ago. But she was far more broken than Isaic.
She started toward the initiates' chambers.
Maybe things can be different. Micah's words, in her reading room months ago. She'd found them naïve then. Now . . .
I've lived sixty-three summers, with far fewer ahead. Would she die like this? Broken, cowardly, a wasted life behind her? Micah was even older, and he didn't think it was too late. He, at least, was trying.
She reached the initiates' hall and opened the third door on the left without knocking. Most of the beds sat empty, but Takra had curled into a ball in one of them—her robe still on backwards, her shoulders shuddering. Shephatiah's abuse had reduced her to a child half her age.
Angelica went to her and knelt. Quietly enough that her Preserver wouldn't hear, she whispered in her ear:
"It'll be all right. I'm going to kill him."
21
i. Angbar
He had dreamt it. He must have.
He woke to the mundanities of morning camp. Iggy and Helix talking, Syntal's troubled snores, the meadow cool and quiet. The tree he'd seen in the night was gone.
"What in Hel," he muttered, staring at the spot. He would swear he had seen—
"Breakfast." Lyseira handed him a piece of manna. "Iggy says we need to be ready to leave right away."
He took the food and sat up, joints protesting. He was already tired of sleeping on open ground. "Where are we going? I thought he said―" He stuttered. Iggy hadn't really said it—the stag had, using Iggy's voice. Or something along those lines? "I thought he said there was a way to help Syn."
"There is," Iggy put in. "The wood woke me early, and brought me to it."
"The wood . . . ?" Angbar started, as Lyseira and Seth exchanged do-you-think-he's-crazy looks. As he gained his feet, he saw Iggy holding one of their clay soup bowls, filled nearly to the brim with clear water.
"This is from a spring near here. It's special somehow. Powerful. The great stag says it will kill the pain, or at least deaden it enough that she can walk out of here." His beard bristled with twigs and grass from a night on the ground. "The one—you know, the one that used my voice yesterday."
"M'sai." How Iggy could be all right with that, Angbar couldn't comprehend. Seth had been convinced it was demonic possession, and Angbar had been inclined to agree with him. If Iggy hadn't still been able to speak occasionally in his own voice, Lyseira might have attempted an exorcism.
"Ig," Helix said. "Are you sure about this? There's something off here, something wrong with this place."
A flicker of irritation crossed Iggy's face. "There's nothing wrong. You just can't . . . it's not a place for you."
"Are you well?" Lyseira demanded. "Are you in control of yourself?"
"I'm fine!" he insisted. "Just . . . would you all calm down? The stag wants to speak again—to all of us—and then we can leave here. All right? We'll be on our way out before noon."
"'To all of us,'" Seth repeated. "Through your voice again?"
Iggy nodded. As if summoned, the stag emerged from the far side of the massive tree at the center of the meadow and approached them.
Before he could stop the question or even decide if asking it was a good idea, Angbar blurted, "Did you turn into a tree last night?"
Iggy gave him a look that said, Have you lost your mind? Before he could speak, though, his body stiffened and his eyes widened. A deep voice, the voice of the stag, issued from his mouth. "We must speak of the dragon's dark.
"Ignatius Ardenfell tells me only a chanter can open Lar'atul's wardbooks, and that of you, only the sleeping one is strong enough to do that."
He gave Angbar a significant look, and Angbar shrugged. "That's probably true."
"Were there any other way, I would never permit this task to fall to a chanter. It pains me. But Lar'atul knew what my wishes would be, and took measures against them. He also knew I would not rest until the task is done, and in this, he was right. So be it. The chanter will do what must be done, but the speaker will be with her at all times."
He paused, as if expecting some kind of agreement. Angbar glanced at the others. This time Helix shrugged. "M'sai," he said. "But if you want Syn to do something for you, you have to help her—like you said you would."
Iggy nodded. "This is water from the Ley spring, a source which Mother Ordlan's own roots pass through. The Deep-Tree's potency, even sleeping, is so great that it bleeds into the water, infusing it. Though it cannot lift the curse on the chanter, if she drinks this full bowl, it will keep her pain at bay for some time. She will need to return for more in two moons. In this way we will ensure her continued loyalty."
"Her loyalty?" Helix demanded. "She's not loyal to you. She didn't even want to come here."
"So be it. But the Seal must be broken, and it seems now she is the one who must break it. She will return regularly, loyal or otherwise, so we can know of her progress."
Iggy blinked twice. His voice became his own again. "You don't even want her here. You hate letting chanters into the wood. If you want to know what's happening, let me return to tell you."
The gravelly voice of the stag returned. "She will need the water. Without it, the curse's pain will hobble her."
"I can get the water for her. I did today."
Angbar's arms broke out in goosebumps. Watching Iggy talk to himself, alternating between his normal voice and that guttural alien one—it would haunt his dreams tonight.
"So be it," the stag conceded. "Now listen." Iggy swung his head toward Lyseira. It was the motion of a beast with a great rack of antlers. "You spoke of the dark of the dragon. Do you know what it is?"
"No," Lyseira said.
"Stare at the sun," the stag's voice said, "or into a fire, and then turn away, and you will still see it. Something bright enough, brilliant enough, will stain your vision afterwards, even should you close your eyes. So it is with a pulse-shade. When an immortal dragon meets its end, the Pulse remembers. Its memory is a dark reflection of the beast that once lived. The dragon's dark."
Not just a dragon, Angbar thought, suddenly queasy. That would be bad enough. "A dragon's ghost," he said. "The dark of the dragon is a dragon's ghost."
"No," Iggy snarled in the stag's voice. "It isn't necromancy. It isn't created by the twisted will of some mad chanter. It is a natural consequence of a sudden, violent death. A great beast, slain by the Raving Witch when she wrought the cataclysm—bound now to the site of its death, in Kesselholm. It thrashes in remembered agony, the moment of its destruction seared into the Pulse forever, like an afterimage of the sun."
"A memory," Angbar ventured. "So it's a kind of mirage? It can't harm us?"
Iggy's face snorted. "It could sear you to ash with a thought." His tone softened. "But you've a speaker with you, and a Kesprey." Lyseira's head jerked up at this, as if she recognized the word. "Perhaps they can keep the chanter alive long enough to break the secrets of Lar'atul's twisted puzzle, whatever they may be."
A grimace of disgust came over Iggy's face. "Even the dark, Lar'atul had to abuse. Not enough that Ordlan Green's western guardian died to the Raving Witch's will, not enough that his
death was so violent it left a shade in his stead—even the dark itself must play the chanter's game." He shook his head. "I know not what corruptions Lar'atul infused into the dark to make it serve his will, or what game he plays at with this fourth wardbook. But Ignatius Ardenfell swears your chanter can find the book. This is the only reason—the only reason—we permit her life."
Iggy's face hardened in resolve. He crossed to Syntal and knelt next to her as she slept. "Wake," the stag's voice said. "Now."
Syntal roused slowly, yesterday's double dose of ensilla still heavy in her blood. When she focused on Iggy's face, the stag said, "Drink." At once, Iggy followed up: "It's all right. It will help with the pain, without putting you back to sleep. But no chanting, Syn. Don't even think about it."
He tipped the bowl toward her mouth, and she drank. Angbar realized he was holding his breath, waiting for her response.
"It's good," she said.
"It is of Mother Ordlan's spring," the stag said through Iggy's voice. "Clean and potent. You are not worthy of it."
"Syn?" Angbar asked. The constant clench of the girl's jaw had eased. Her fingers uncurled from their permanent claws.
"It's good," she said again. Iggy rose and stepped back, the bowl empty. "Oh, God," she breathed. "Oh, thank God. It's better. It's actually better."
"You can thank the Deep-Tree, not the God," Iggy said acidly. "And you can do it by fulfilling your promise and ending the Seal."
Then immediately, from his same mouth: "All right. She understands. Enough now."
"Wait," Lyseira said. "Don't leave yet."
Iggy looked at her, quizzical.
"You said 'Kesprey.' Where do you . . . ? How do you know that word?"
The stag's gaze returned to Iggy's eyes. "All know the word. Or knew it," he conceded, "before the Seal."
"Why did you say we have one with us?"
"Are you not Kesprey?" The quizzical look returned. "You've the smell of a Grey."
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