A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  That, of course, was why he'd brought her here.

  "You can be at ease," he assured her. "You've nothing to fear from me or Kai. I'll never forget what you did. In fact . . ." He hesitated. This was the last chance, the last opportunity to turn back. A final vision of a Keswick with no church of any kind flickered in his thoughts.

  Then it vanished. "I've invited you here to ask a favor.

  "Any day now, I expect to hear that my brother Jan has been coronated in Tal'aden. They'll name him King. They will return here, to Keswick, with an army, and when that happens, this city will be overrun. Both of us, most likely, will be killed.

  "I don't want to see that happen."

  Lyseira licked her lips. "No," she said. "Of . . . of course not, but I don't know what you think I can do. I can work miracles, yes—but so can they."

  "No. It's not your wi—your miracles that I'm asking for. It's your blessing."

  She narrowed her eyes, not following.

  "They took my birthright, Lyseira. I can't command the army without it. I can't even control my own city without it—the king's congress is already squabbling. By the laws of Darnoth and the terms of the Gregors' Pact, I've no right to wear the crown.

  "I need a mandate. I need a divine right.

  "I'm asking you to name me King."

  She scoffed and looked around as though she were the butt of some joke. "What? But that's . . . I'm not . . ." She sputtered. "Even if I did, who would care?"

  "Everyone," he said levelly. "Everyone.

  "You command the respect of the people here. Even those who didn't hear you speak in the square know every word of your speech there. You have a crowd of disciples outside as we speak."

  Again, Lyseira scoffed. "They're not . . . disciples, they just―"

  "When King Jan orders the Gregor army to march, they will march without question. The Church will ensure everyone knows of his divine right to the throne." He settled forward. "But if they hear that Isaic has been crowned in Keswick by the Grey Girl, that Akir has turned His back on the old Church and planted a new one that supports the trueborn heir . . . suddenly, the orders aren't so clean. Suddenly there are defectors. Delays. Suddenly those in Keswick who want to acknowledge my rule but are too frightened of the old Church gain the courage to stand with me."

  "But you're already King," she insisted. "Lucas Gregor is dead—everyone knows it."

  "I've claimed the throne, but by the laws of Darnoth, it's an empty claim. The Church knows it. My generals know it. In their hearts, the people know it. I'll forge ahead if I have to, of course—but I'm asking you to end all doubt. Coronate me. Let the people know Akir chose me to rule, despite what Marcus said."

  "But He hasn't," Lyseira said.

  "The people think He has," Isaic returned. "They saw me come through the Godsflame unharmed at Majesta." Lyseira shook her head. "They saw lightning strike Marcus in the central square for trying to kill me."

  "That was Syntal!" she said. "And you survived the Godsflame because of my prayer!"

  Isaic spread his hands. "Then He worked through you. But He still chose."

  Her eyes flashed. "No. That was my choice. You sound like the Fatherlord, making that kind of argument. I'm not God just because I can work miracles."

  I'm losing her, he thought. The stories about her had been right: she wasn't the timid thing he'd thought she was. There was fire behind those eyes.

  "M'sai," he said. "I apologize. You would know better than me. I've never had the privilege to hear His voice, and I won't force you to do this.

  "But please understand: when Tal'aden comes, we stand the best chance of surviving if we're united. And the best way to unite the people is to give them a king."

  She stared past him and said nothing.

  "Will you at least give me an answer?" he asked. "A yes or no, so I can plan accordingly?"

  Lyseira stood to leave. "I'll pray on it." She turned her back as if he were no one, her brother behind her.

  Three days later, she agreed.

  ii. Iggy

  He circled once and set down in the Deep-Tree's meadow, his talons turning to feet with the first lighting step. Ciir-goath awaited, both his mien and his mane more regal than any crown.

  The dark of the dragon, the stag whispered by way of greeting. The fourth Storm. We saw.

  Mother Ordlan? Iggy ventured—but when it came, Ciir-goath's gentle denial didn't surprise him. He could tell the Deep-Tree still slept; the question had been a vain hope only.

  Powerful, she is. Her roots entwine deeply with the Pulse. More Seals must break, I fear, before she gains the strength to waken.

  Kahls padded out from the trees to join them. Speaker Iggy, he whispered, his dog-like face breaking into a grin. You are welcome.

  I can't stay, Iggy said. His hurry chagrined him; the breeze carried the scent of his regret to his friends without a whisper of deceit. I came for more water, and to ask for help.

  Kahls yipped. A younger fox trotted forward, this one lacking Kahls's distinctive horn. Give me your skin, he whispered. I'll have it filled while you speak with the Ciirs.

  Iggy thanked him, knelt, and looped the water skin around his neck. The fox started away, but another young fox, his brother, dashed from the trees. Found you! the new fox cried, and the two vanished into the wood, laughing.

  Kahls read the look of concern on Iggy's face. The grin returned. Dionga may play a bit first, he assured him, but he'll do as I ask.

  The fifth Seal, Ciir-goath whispered. The chanter girl said there would be a clue in the fourth wardbook. Do you need our help deciphering it?

  I wish I did. Iggy sighed. There wasn't a clue this time. All he said was, "Each shall point the way to its brother."

  The Ciirs exchanged glances. It means nothing to me, Ciir-goath said.

  Nor I, Kahls agreed. The words carried a whiff of disappointment.

  She'll figure it out, Iggy promised. I'm not sure anything could stop her.

  The water does its work then? Ciir-goath asked. She can endure the curse's pain sufficiently?

  Iggy nodded. Better than she could've hoped.

  Good. The stag's scent shifted, took on an air of warning. Ignatius Ardenfell, there is a great Stormsign coming. Have you felt it?

  He had felt something—a tilt to the summer air, a flicker of madness at every sunset. I think so.

  All of Ordlan Green prepares. It will be a blizzard unlike any we have seen in ages.

  A blizzard? The month of Dryfields had barely begun; Summerset was weeks away, yet. The sun's blistering heat had chased him for his entire flight to Ordlan Green, shimmering a threat over the open plains. Yet there was no hint of doubt in their warning, and as he reflected on it further, he realized they were right.

  Warn your pack, Ciir-goath continued. The girl must continue her work, no matter the obstacles.

  I will, Iggy promised. And when Dionga returned with a full, sloshing water skin, still damp from its dip in the spring, Iggy thanked them and leapt back to the skies.

  He banked with the wind, caught an updraft that sent him soaring southeast. As he cleared Ordlan Green and his shadow fell over the plain, prey scattered beneath it. He longed to dive, to claim what was his.

  Later, he promised himself. On the way back. First, he had one more job to do.

  The journey that had taken him more than two weeks by foot at the start of summer now flashed past below him. The sun arced, crested, and sank as the winds buoyed him toward his goal.

  Finally he saw a livid scar in his mother's flesh: a road, pocked with travelers. He focused his raptor's gaze, searching for stars around their necks. When he'd first set out from Keswick, there had been precious few.

  Here, closer to the crystal tower, there were many.

  Not just God's Stars but squads of scarlet livery; Preservers and Justicars; soldiers flying the griffon and the lance. And between them the enslaved horses and oxen, forced to carry the army or its supplies.

&
nbsp; A legion strong enough to crush the rebellion in Keswick.

  The wind, though, brought him something they didn't know. A tang he finally recognized, a sharpening of the southerly wind.

  The blizzard. With luck, it would strike before the army began to move—or better yet, catch it unawares on the road to Keswick, cutting off their supply line and smothering them in snow. Would it be enough? Would it stop them before they could lay siege?

  He folded his wings and dove west, against the wind, before catching a lower stratum that bore him toward home. He would catch a meal. Take a little time to relish his freedom. Then he would return to the halls of stone and warn the others:

  A storm was coming.

  Epilogue

  It's good work, Sarah. It'll make your mother proud, and I thank you for the chance to read it. But you are correct on two counts: yes, the section on the revolt needs work, and yes, I was there.

  Please keep in mind that the revolt itself was largely an accident of history. Most of Keswick's clerics were still on the road, traveling back from the Convocation in Tal'aden. If they'd all been there, I have no doubt the riot would have been put down and Isaic killed. And the early winter—call it a gift from Akir, call it Stormsign, call it what you will—prevented Tal'aden from sweeping in afterward. All that snow nearly starved us, but it gave the newly reborn Keswick a season to gain its feet when it most needed it, not to mention setting the stage for the Kespran Church's explosive growth in the spring.

  But you're right. It was violent. Always remember that revolt. People forget that the Kespran Church was born in blood and fire, from the ashes of Baltazar's temple before it. Yes, Lyseira's new church became a force for mercy and compassion. Yes, it did immeasurable good. It saved countless lives when the wars came.

  But it ended countless lives as well. Its origin, that bloody revolt, may explain some of the savagery that came later. It's something to think about.

  At the same time, of course, we had Syntal's latent chanters. People always talk about the Eldran and the Arwah, but you have to remember this was before that, when everything was still a secret. When people still used the word witch like it meant something.

  Forgive an old man's rambling, but there was just so much happening at once. The first halting steps of Lyseira's new church. The chanters who ended up forming the backbone for Syntal's ill-fated school. And the coronation! Kirith a'jhul, that alone would be a tale for the grandchildren. I still think on it. It was Isaic's idea, but it's Lyseira most people remember. Lyseira in that resplendent grey dress—she got that from Cosani, you know. Surrounded by budding chanters and the new Kespran faithful, having the audacity to crown the King. This slip of a thing, this girl of seventeen.

  Heady days, when we thought the worst was behind us. That the deadliest threats were past, that Akir was on our side. We were certain not even Tal'aden's new King Jan Gregor could truly stand against us.

  We had never been more wrong about anything.

  Looking back on it now, of course, our naïveté astounds me. It was just like the Storm. I wrote about this idea in Musings. Isaic's coronation and the birth of the Kespran Church were the start of a story, not the end of one—and it was a bloody story, filled with horrors we couldn't even imagine. The Griffons' War. The Mal'shedaal.

  But on that day, standing on the palace steps as Lyseira placed the crown on Isaic's head, an entire kingdom cheering before her—

  Well, that day we were victors.

  Angbar Shed’dei, in a letter found pressed between the pages of “Keswick: Memories of a City Lost,” First Edition

  A Note From the Author

  Of Dark Things Waking, the sequel to A Season of Rendings, will be available later in 2018. You can be the first to hear about the release date if you sign up for my mailing list—I tell them everything first! If you sign up for it now, not only will you be first to get news on new novels and sales on existing books, but you'll receive each story in my upcoming short story anthology These Morbid Gifts for free as their final drafts are finished. I hope to hear from you!

  If you'd like the notifications without any of the free fiction or other bonuses, you can also visit my Amazon home page and then press "Follow."

  Finally, if you enjoyed A Season of Rendings, please consider leaving a review for it on Amazon. It doesn't need to be fancy or long, just honest. If you like the series and want it to continue, a higher review count will make sure more readers go on to the next book—which will help me prioritize writing the next one. Some authors pay for their reviews; I don't, and never will. I'm reliant on readers like yourself to make their opinions heard.

  Thank you again for reading. I hope you'll join me in Darnoth once more, and soon.

  Acknowledgments

  I thought the last one was a doozy.

  Thank you, first and foremost, as always, to the original children of Southlight: Joy Nicolai, Ethan Mills, Jason Parviz, Jerry Murphy, Matt Giesler, Jason Formo, Mike Lonetti, and Jason Tabor.

  Thank you again to Adam Paquette for a brilliant image of Keswick burning. During the darkest hours for me between 2013 and this book's final publication, nothing kept me motivated like that image . . . particularly since I had already paid for it.

  Thank you to my beta readers: Tom Skripka, Jason Godfrey, Jason Parviz, Joy Nicolai, Jenn Godfrey, Ethan Mills, Ryan Holthaus, and Senja Nicolai. Thanks to you, all the tents are now on the characters' sheets.

  And as always, my deepest thank you to my wife, Joy. I listen to you more than you think.

  About the Author

  Adam J Nicolai lives near St. Paul, Minnesota, with his wife, Joy, their two children, Isaac and Rydia, and their four cats. He is a Dungeon Master and a min-maxer, a Star Wars fan and a lifelong dreamer. He has written pen-and-paper roleplaying systems, World of Warcraft addons, and a bunch of novels.

  He has been working on the world of Or'agaard since he was eight years old, and sharing it with you is a dream come true. To be notified when Of Dark Things Waking is coming, just click here.

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  Without warning on a sunny June afternoon, all life on Earth vanishes. Reeling and alone in the aftermath, Alan and his son Todd scrounge through the ruins of civilization to survive.

  Finding food and water is easy. Electric power is harder. But Alan has his own search, one he tries to hide from his son: after a lifelong struggle with depression, his scarcest resource now is a reason to keep living.

  Through wildfires and tornadoes, as the deadly cold of a Minnesota winter draws closer, the two ask questions that may never be answered. Why did this happen? Why were they spared? They don't realize that behind the empty sky, the entity that did this still watches.

  Or that its plans have only begun.

  "Fans of Nicolai's excellent emotional thriller, Alex, will be enthralled with the world he's created here. Scary, heartfelt, and brimming with pathos, Todd is a story that grabs hold of you and doesn't let go." - Joe Hart, author of The River Is Dark and The Last Girl.

  Todd is available now in paperback and for Kindle.

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  Rebecca

  Sarah loves her baby.

  Yes, the constant crying is hard. Maybe even the worst part. The baby screams day and night. Sarah doesn't sleep anymore.

  And sure, Sarah used to be popular. She used to be pretty and smart. Now her friends don't call, and she doesn't recognize her own body. Her own mother kicked her out of the house, and she lives in an oppressive, tiny apartment, alone with the screaming.

  Sometimes she dreams of an angel who tells her the baby was just a mistake, and that mistakes can be fixed. "Little ones die in their sleep all the time," he tells her. "It could happen to yours. It could look like an accident."

  Sometimes, when the baby screams, Sarah screams too.

  It's all right, though. No one hears. And if they did, they'd have nothing to worry about. Everything is fine in the apartment at
the end of the hall.

  Sarah loves her baby.

  Rebecca is available now in paperback and for Kindle.

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  Alex

  A bereaved father. A quickening madness. Whenever he's alone, Ian sees his murdered son.

  Are these aching visions real? Has the boy found a way back, to pass on some vital clue to his father?

  Or has Ian's sorrow blossomed into psychosis?

  As the visions intensify, assaulting him in every corner of his life, the pressure mounts. Driven to his breaking point, Ian's final choices may avenge his son - or snap his final ties to reality.

  Kindle readers have launched Alex to the Kindle Suspense and Horror bestseller lists more than half a dozen times, from July of 2012 to December of 2017. If you're looking for a novel that seizes you on the first page and drags you relentlessly to the finish, you'll be glad you joined them.

  Read Alex tonight in paperback or digital audio, or for Kindle.