Alesh smiled, almost shyly now, but there was an undeniable eagerness to him as he held up the figure of Olliman. “This is Olliman. He’s the Chosen, and really tough. He’s a good guy.”
Ulem smiled pleasantly. “Yes, yes he is. The best of us, may Amedan and all his children watch over him.” Slowly, his smile faded, and he regarded the other figure. “And this?”
“Argush,” Alesh said, staring at it. “He’s a bad man. He did lots of bad things, but Olliman beat him.”
The priest nodded thoughtfully, and Torrik felt another twinge of unease as he watched the way the man studied his son. “And tell me, Alesh, how are things with you?”
Alesh blinked. “Um…things are good. Thank you.”
The old man patted his head, “Good. That is good. May the light keep you ever in its embrace, young one.”
Alesh grinned. “You too.” Then he turned to Elayna. “Mom?”
She smiled. “You can go back to playing, Alesh. I’ll be there in a moment—your father and I are just going to speak with an old friend for a few minutes.”
Then he was on the ground again, the two figures in his child’s hand reliving a battle that had cost tens of thousands of lives. Torrik and his wife shared a troubled look, but he turned as he heard the old man grunting in obvious pain. He hurried forward, helping him to his feet, and Ulem sighed in relief. “Thank you, Torrik. I fear my body is…” He paused, wincing. “Not as strong as it once was.”
Torrik shook his head, doing his best to hide his disbelief. Only five years since he had last seen the man, yet it seemed as if the priest had aged twenty or more. “None of us is the same as we were,” he said.
The priest met his eyes, and Torrik was surprised by the intensity in the man’s gaze. “Of course,” the priest said, after a time, “but we are as the gods made us. Perhaps there is still remnant of the men we once were.”
Torrik shrugged, suspecting there was a deeper meaning to the man’s words but not understanding. “I’m a merchant now, Ulem. A simple life, but a good one. Still, you haven’t told me what’s brought you here to this town. I would have thought you’d be relaxing with your feet up on a desk somewhere by now with dozens of acolytes scrambling to do your bidding.”
The old man laughed. “Oh, if only it were so. But, then, I am not made for sitting at a desk, Torrik, any more than, I think, you are made to sell lanterns and wicks to frightened townspeople. If I sit too long, my body protests, you see, my muscles stiffening up on me until, when I finally try to move, I can barely do so.”
Torrik frowned. “I move well enough. Still, you didn’t answer my question.”
Ulem grinned. “Oh, do not look so suspicious, old friend. I was only assigned to this place—supposedly, because there is a new bishop here, and the Church thought my experience might be of some use.” He sighed. “In truth, I suspect it was an ill-concealed attempt to get rid of an old man who talks too much.” He gave another wink. “Not that I can blame them. And how are you enjoying our town, I wonder?”
Torrik shrugged. “We only arrived late yesterday. We rented a house on the outskirts of town—a nice place.”
“Ah, yes, the home of the Clavertons, may Amedan and his children keep them safe on their journey. They are good people. Pious people. Sadly, it seems that Aria’s mother—that’s Mrs. Claverton—has come down with the fever, and they have traveled to be with her. I cannot blame them, but that will not stop me from praying for their safety. Such journeys are dangerous…”—he frowned—“particularly now.”
He studied Torrik, as if waiting for something more, and the spy-turned-merchant shifted uncomfortably. “As for why we’re here, well…I’d rather not—”
“You may as well tell him, Torrik,” Elayna interrupted, watching the priest carefully. “I believe he knows well enough why we have come.”
Torrik frowned, glancing between his wife and his old friend, who were studying each other with unreadable expressions. “Wait,” he said, turning to the priest as realization struck, “do you mean to say you’re the one—”
“We carry the Light,” Ulem said. His voice was serious now, all traces of the jocular familiarity with which he’d greeted them gone as he stared at Torrik expectantly.
We carry the Light. The same words that had been included in the anonymous letter, the one that had brought his family to this unfamiliar town. The same words he had heard many times before, ones he had hoped never to hear again. For in those words was a question, and should he give the expected answer, he would be well and truly wrapped up in whatever troubles the letter had referenced. And not just him, not any longer, but his family too. His wife. His son. He would no longer be able to tell himself he was a simple merchant, a man who might carry letters from time to time, but no more than that. It was not an easy step to take, for that step would place him—and his family—onto a path, the destination of which there was no knowing.
So he hesitated, thinking of everything he could lose. He did not have to speak at all—he knew that. Should he remain silent, that, too, would be an answer. But Ulem was an old friend, an old comrade who had helped Torrik in the past, had saved his life on more than one occasion. He was a man who had given freely of himself, who still did, and one who understood well the cost of the question he asked. Torrik knew it was one he would not ask lightly. No, silence was not an option—silence would be betrayal.
Torrik took a slow, deep breath, glancing once at his son, and his wife who watched him with an unreadable expression, before turning back to the priest, and reciting the second part of the coded pairing. “So others might see the truth.” The words came out heavy, stubbornly, as if reluctant to be said. For several seconds, there was only silence as the two men studied each other, the priest’s expression reflecting both relief and sadness.
“Why are we here, Ulem?” Torrik finally said.
The priest glanced around the town square again, as if expecting people—or nightlings—to appear out of the alleyways. But there was nothing, no one. Yet, when he turned back to the priest, Torrik was surprised to see more than a little fear in his expression. “I…there are things that I must tell you but…not here. It…may not be safe.”
Torrik frowned at that, his eyes automatically going to his son playing on the ground behind the stall. It was his wife who spoke. “We were preparing to leave anyway,” she said. “Tell me, priest, have you any plans for dinner?”
2
The house they’d rented was larger than most the town of Entin had to offer. Not that it was actually in town. It lay a few miles outside the city limits on a hill a short distance off the road. The Clavertons were obviously wealthy—evidenced not just by the house’s size or furnishings, but also by the many lights placed on the property to defend against the darkness.
Torrik may once have been a spy who only acted as a merchant from time to time, but he was all but a merchant in truth now, and one who knew well the cost of the lanterns burning along the path leading to the house, as well as surrounding its exterior. Such upkeep would have cost, in a year’s time, more coin than most people of such a small hamlet would earn.
Still, it was a nice place, a safe one, though his mind—growing less and less that of a spy and more and more that of a merchant every day—couldn’t help tallying the amount of dawns and dusks his family’s short stay would cost them. A stay that, it was becoming more and more apparent, would not be a pleasant one. And, the truth was, it wasn’t as if they’d been spoiled for choice on a place to stay. True, they could have rented a room at one of the town’s inns, but considering the mysterious nature of the letter he’d received, Torrik had thought it better to find a place that afforded some privacy.
It may not be safe. The priest’s words from the town square echoed in his mind, growing louder by the second, and it was all Torrik could do to keep his trembling hands from dropping the plates of food—beef and cheese and bread—he was carrying.
He was not afraid for himself—Torrik h
ad long ago resigned himself to the dangers of his role in the battle against the darkness, for those things which waited in the dark did not like to have their secrets revealed, their truths uncovered. More than one of Torrik’s old compatriots had disappeared into the night’s grasping maw, never to be seen again. It was part of the job, often a consequence of it, and Torrik, for all his faults, had always tried to remain honest with himself.
But then he had met Elayna, another agent in the war against the darkness. They had fallen in love, had married and, for a time, had worked together in their fight until she had quickened with their child. Then all those truths, those dangers Torrik and his wife had so easily accepted, suddenly became too great. They had retired, telling themselves there was more than one way to fight the creeping darkness, and, mostly, believing it.
He set one of the plates down in front of Ulem, and the priest gave him a distracted smile as he studied Alesh playing in the floor by the table. Something about the intensity of the man’s gaze troubled Torrik, but he only walked to the other end of the table and sat while they waited for Elayna. The two men spoke little, the priest watching Alesh and Torrik watching him watch him, until his wife finally arrived, setting her own plate down, along with one for Alesh.
“Come on, honey, it’s time to eat.” Her words seemed to break whatever spell had fallen on the men, and Alesh hurried over to sit beside his mother.
They ate in silence until the boy was finished, and Elayna allowed him to go back to his play. Torrik sighed, wanting to put off whatever revelations the priest had in store, but knowing it was pointless. “Okay, Ulem,” he said, feeling very much like a man stepping into the darkness with no idea where his feet might take him, “tell us why you’ve brought us here.”
The priest nodded, a look of consideration on his face as if he were having difficulty deciding how to begin. “I ask that you both forgive me for the letter. For…what I’ve asked of you.”
Elayna raised an eyebrow. “So far, you’ve asked nothing of us except for more butter.”
The old man gave a small smile at that, but it did not touch the troubled look in his eyes. “Yes…well, it is strange, but, sitting here, I find it difficult to begin. Perhaps you will listen to all I have said, and tell me I am seeing shadows where there are none. You may, after listening, decide I am an old fool. Perhaps I am, and I almost hope that it is so, though in truth, I do not believe it. Not, at least, in this.”
Torrik and his wife frowned, sharing a troubled look at that, before he turned back to his friend. “Tell us.”
“Very well,” the priest said. “You are both, I think, familiar with Bishop Deckard?”
Torrik grunted in surprise. “I met him once, years ago. But then he was only an acolyte, training to become a priest in the temple of Amedan in Valeria, and I was under the guise of a merchant. Do you mean to say that he has already risen to the rank of bishop?”
“Indeed,” Ulem said.
Elayna nodded slowly. “That is…somewhat quicker than normal, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the priest answered simply. “In fact, at least as far as I am aware, Bishop Deckard has risen through the ranks of the Church at an unprecedented rate. One that, simply put, is quite amazing.”
Torrik frowned. “I’m sure that’s interesting, and I suppose I’m happy for him—though, in truth, the man always struck me as a bit more arrogant than a priest or a man training to become one should be. Still, I’m not sure what difference that makes for us.”
“Arrogant,” Ulem said thoughtfully, as if tasting the feel of the word. “Yes, I do not believe it is wrong to say as much. Certainly, Bishop Deckard is ambitious; no man with eyes could claim any less. But it must be said he has seemed to serve the Church faithfully enough, and there is no one who proclaims his faith in Amedan and hatred for the darkness louder than Deckard himself. Still, the Church did not originally intend to give him the rank of bishop. He was to serve under another who I believe you know: Bishop Aberdine.”
Torrik and his wife shared a smile. “Yes, we know the bishop, though it has been some time since I’ve spoken with him. He is a good man.”
Ulem winced. “Was.”
Torrik grunted, opening his mouth to ask the obvious question, but Elayna beat him to it. “Ulem, do you mean to tell us that something has happened to the bishop?”
The priest nodded slowly. “Yes. Bishop Aberdine—may Amedan and his children watch over him—is dead.”
“But that’s terrible,” Elayna said. “Oh, Ulem, I’m so sorry to hear that. He was…your teacher, wasn’t he?”
The priest cleared his throat, and Torrik could not miss the tears that gathered in the old man’s eyes. “Yes, he was, and a greater teacher and guide into the Light than any man could ask for. That was a long time ago—I was barely a man myself, with none of the aches and pains that my body has since acquired—yet Bishop Aberdine and I have remained close ever since. Whenever I have difficult questions about the faith or when I begin to fear the darkness might never be defeated, it is to him I turn. Or at least…it was.”
“I am sorry to hear about Aberdine’s passing, Ulem,” Torrik said. “But…and I hope you don’t find me insensitive…the man was old. Time does its work on all of us, faithful and unfaithful alike.”
The priest was slow in answering, clearly battling with his own emotion. Finally, he did. “Yes, as you say, time does its work on all, yet…” He paused, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “Yet, it rarely makes itself known by tearing out our hearts. Such as that is usually the mark of another…agency.”
Torrik recoiled as if struck. “You mean…the nightlings got him.”
Ulem frowned. “So it would appear.”
“What happened?” This from Elayna, which was just as well, as Torrik was finding it difficult to speak. Men died to the nightlings, of course, but one such as Aberdine knew well the dangers the dark held—few better. To hear he had fallen to them was more unsettling than hearing that a man known for his swimming ability had drowned. If such a man, possessed of such wisdom, knowledge, and experience was not safe from the nightlings, then who was?
“They ate his heart,” Ulem repeated, and it seemed to Torrik that he wasn’t speaking to them at all, but to himself, his voice wretched and full of grief. “For all our efforts, we still do not understand why they do that.”
Elayna leaned over, putting a hand on the old man’s, and he started, his gaze growing focused once more. “Forgive me,” he said, running a hand across his eyes, “I do not mean to trouble you with my grief. And that is not why you are here.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Elayna said. “Aberdine was a good man, Ulem. Now, please, how did it happen?”
The priest took a moment, then finally seemed to master himself. “No one knows for sure. Only that his body was found a few miles outside of town, savaged in a way that left no doubt about the nightlings’ role in his death.”
Torrik frowned. “But…that doesn’t make any sense. What would Aberdine be doing miles from town at night?”
“The same question I have asked myself over the last weeks,” Ulem said. “According to Bishop Deckard, Aberdine had been acting…unusual of late. And, it must be said, it was not Deckard alone who said as much, but several of the priests within the local Church…” He trailed off then, obviously deep in thought.
“Acting unusual?” Torrik prompted.
“Yes,” Ulem said, “small things, they said, at least at first. Telling one of them something and then telling it to them again with no knowledge of having said it the first time. Misplacing items, that sort of thing. But according to Deckard and the other priests, he grew worse quickly, sometimes forgetting where he was, misremembering the names of men he had known for decades.” He shrugged. “I, myself, on those few occasions when I have spoken to him recently—not as much as I would have liked, I fear—saw nothing to indicate such, but I had my own duties to see to, and I did not spend enough time around him of late to
swear that he was of his right mind.”
“You said he was training Deckard,” Torrik said. “Preparing him to become the next Bishop. So when he died…”
Ulem nodded. “The Church had little choice but to make Deckard the bishop. It is premature, to be sure, for normally he would have spent several years under Aberdine’s tutelage, but as you know, the Church is stretched thin with the reappearance of the nightlings since the Night War.”
“And you think what, exactly?” Elayna said. “That Deckard had something to do with Aberdine’s death?”
The priest shook his head slowly. “I do not want to see shadows where there are none, and I will be the first to admit my grief may well cloud my judgment but…Aberdine’s death has not been the only unsettling thing to happen of late.”
“What else?” Torrik asked.
“People have been going missing,” Ulem said. “Not many, and most commonly the poorest of the town’s people. The homeless, those of little means, without families. I believe the count now is less than a dozen—but certainly more than normal. Two were eventually found—their bodies in much the same state as Bishop Aberdine’s.”
“The nightlings,” Torrik said.
“Yes,” the priest agreed. “I cannot say for certain that all of the missing have been killed…just as I cannot say that we know of all those who are missing. After all, as I’ve said, these people are without deep connections in the town. Drifters, the homeless and estranged. The count might be as much as double what we believe. Still,” he said, nodding slowly, “I believe the nightlings are responsible for their deaths.”
Torrik’s wife studied the priest, a thoughtful expression on her face. “The poor and the destitute, drifters and homeless. These are who have gone missing?”
“Yes.”
Torrik had been trained to observe every detail, every nuance. Besides, he knew his wife, had lived with her long enough to understand her looks, her expressions, and so he knew, by the slight crinkling of her brows, the way her mouth was opened the tiniest fraction, that she was deep in thought. “What is it?” he asked.
The Forging of Dawn Page 2