Breath of Heaven, page 13
“But…we’ve been receiving reports for months now of attacks on the villages and towns in the outlying edges of Yhnar. They’ve all claimed some kind of demon or creature out of folklore. I dismissed these accounts out of hand. They’re commoners. They frighten at every twisting shadow and are generally superstitious. But still.” Kent rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “When I inspected the patrol routes, what we saw hovering in the distance over the wasteland and then on the ground on the Flats wasn’t any animal I recognized. And when we camped one night, I would have sworn something was watching us from the grass.”
Tarken smothered his initial response. He’d known Kent since they were in training in the Legion. He’d always been pragmatic, and was never one to accept rumor or suspicion as truth. But whatever he’d seen during the patrol—demon or otherwise—had disturbed him.
And that disturbed Tarken. He’d dismissed the reports as well, believing that all of the sightings were merely mistakes—hawks or fear-driven hallucinations. But now, with the arrival of the bloodied messenger, his report, and Kent’s own doubts...
“Double the patrols and the guardsmen on the walls. Send out a general warning to the citizens of Yhnar. Have them report anything they see, no matter how strange or insignificant. And begin preparing the Legion for a march. If what the messenger from Temeritt said is true, GreatLord Kobel will need our help to break the siege, no matter who is at their walls. We’ll wait until he can give us a full report, but it doesn’t hurt to prepare. Keep me updated.”
“Very well, GreatLord.” Kent saluted and broke away. Tarken paused, considered heading toward the room where the messenger would be kept, but decided he would only be a nuisance. Marten and Laurelen could handle it, and he knew they’d summon him the moment the man woke.
Instead, he continued on to his study. He needed to revisit those reports.
* * *
“Anything?” Lord Akers asked abruptly. He’d been pacing behind Kobel on the narrow balcony the entire time the GreatLord had been scanning the distant Horde and the burnt husk of the Autumn Tree with his spyglass.
Kobel ignored him, his jaw clenching ever so slightly in irritation as he focused on the blackened branches at the base of the Tree. Most of the upper branches had been consumed in the conflagration as the Horde surrounded Temeritt and laid siege. But the lower branches, while stripped of their fiery autumn-colored leaves by real flame, still remained and were strong enough to hold heavy metal cages. Those cages now held the remains of men and women of Temeritt caught by the Horde. Most had simply been luckless enough to be outside the city walls when Kobel had ordered the gates closed and sealed. But a few of them were guardsmen caught in the few forays Kobel and Akers had made against the Horde from the wall.
Three of the most recent additions were the messengers they’d attempted to send during their last sortie. They’d appeared nearly a week before, and as Kobel scanned their bodies, bile burning at the back of his throat, he felt a sense of relief creep over his shoulders. Two of the messengers had finally died. While he was certainly far too distant to have heard their screams, he had watched them through the spyglass long enough his wife, Echeri, had finally scolded him and taken the instrument away. He’d had to appeal to one of Echeri’s ladies to retrieve the spyglass two days later. He’d been careful to use it only when Echeri was otherwise occupied since.
When the third captured messenger twitched as a carrion crow plucked at the already mangled flesh of one arm, he dropped the cylinder and collapsed it, handing it over to Akers, who seized it instantly and began scanning the black army before them.
“What did you see?” Akers said.
“Two of the messengers have died. The third still lives. I did not see the fourth.”
“Then there’s hope that he got through.”
“Or there was nothing left to place in the cage to antagonize and demoralize us.”
“Who’s demoralized? We’re trapped inside Temeritt, running short on food, and no one knows that we need help. I was thinking of taking my wife and children down to the market for a treat of skewered rat and burnt pigeon.”
In spite of himself, Kobel smiled. “We aren’t that desperate yet.”
“Not yet, but if someone doesn’t arrive soon, with an army at their backs...” Akers trailed off. “It’s hard to tell, but it appears that the scout missing was the one bound for Yhnar.”
“So it would appear. Which means that even if he did make it through, we’re still in trouble. Yhnar doesn’t have the resources we need to end this siege. And they’re too isolated to spread the word quickly enough to the other Provinces to help before starvation kills the majority of us here.”
Akers didn’t answer, shifting the spyglass so he could scan the Horde itself. Kobel had done the same, but hadn’t seen any significant change in the Horde’s encampment. They were settled in, entrenched, waiting.
Waiting for them to starve? Or waiting for something else?
He snapped his fingers in frustration and motioned Akers to follow him back inside the room. “The citizens of Temeritt are getting restless. Commanders have begun reporting an increase in violence in the streets and general rumblings from the populace that we aren’t doing anything.”
“What do they expect us to do?”
“Attack, of course. They know half of the Horde left the walls after the siege began. They know that supplies are running low and that they won’t last much longer. They can feel winter sinking its claws into their skin already. I can feel it myself.” Kobel rolled his shoulders as he headed toward the far door of his personal chambers, Akers following without comment. As soon as they hit the corridor outside, Kobel’s usual escort of four guardsmen fell into position around them. “I can’t blame them—we’ve been cooped up inside the walls for over two months now—but we can’t let it escalate. Issue orders that anyone caught rioting or looting will be conscripted into the Commoner’s Army or executed, their choice. Also, prepare the commanders for more sorties. We need to begin harrying the Horde. They’ve become too complacent.”
“I’d noticed that as well. They didn’t even respond during out last attempt, merely roused themselves enough to make certain we retreated back to our walls. No retaliation at all, not even a token show of mockery.”
“I intend to take advantage of that.”
Akers halted at a cross corridor, Kobel and his escort continuing on without him. “Where are you headed?”
“To see Patris Raleveti. It’s time to call upon the Hand of Diermani.”
* * *
Kobel found Raleveti in the main hall of the cathedral, tending to those who’d gathered for solace beneath the vaulted ceilings and the tilted cross of Diermani. Kobel’s escort’s boots echoed hollowly in the solemn silence of the hall, even though there were at least a hundred citizens of Temeritt scattered throughout the rows of pews, sitting quietly or kneeling with head bowed. A rustle intruded as a few of those in prayer turned at the disturbance, but Kobel ignored them, his gaze latching onto the robust figure of Raleveti to the left of the main altar, beneath the cross. As soon as he caught sight of him, he headed down the central aisle, the patris glancing up from blessing a man and woman as Kobel drew near. Raleveti was twenty years Kobel’s senior, had been Kobel’s tutor when he was a boy, and had the shock of gray hair and weary eyes to prove it. That weariness had deepened in the last few months, carving harsh lines in the patris’ face, especially around the mouth. As Kobel came closer, he realized the portly priest had lost weight as well.
Raleveti withdrew his hands from the two supplicants’ bowed heads as he murmured, “May Diermani guide you in the days to come and cast His blessing on you and yours in this time of darkness.”
Both muttered a response that Kobel didn’t catch, but when they rose to their feet, the man helping the woman by taking one elbow, he realized that the woman was pregnant, close to term. He stepped aside, swallowing back the sudden bitter taste in the back of his throat. The two noticed who he was and genuflected. “GreatLord,” the man said.
The woman reached out to touch Kobel’s arm. “You have to stop it,” she whispered fiercely. “You have to stop the Horde. My baby can’t be born into this. He can’t live in such a world. Do something! Make them go away!”
The presumed husband snatched at his wife’s arm and dragged her away, his face a mask of apology and horror and despair. But the woman’s words had echoed throughout the hall, louder than they would have been had they been shouted on a street corner. Kobel stared around at those faces, some angry, others afraid, a few pleading, most glancing aside as his gaze swept over them.
Kobel turned Raleveti. “I need to speak to you.”
Raleveti clasped his hands before him, the sleeves of the patris’ robes nearly obscuring the gold rings on his fingers. “I’ve been expecting you. You’ve come for the Hand of Diermani, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“You realize that it hasn’t been activated for decades. I’m not even certain it will work. And someone must notice its activation within Corsair and the other Provinces for it to be effective.”
Kobel straightened. “It needs to be done.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
The patris lead them around the curve of the altar’s dais, pausing only once to ring a soft-toned bell before passing through a shadowed doorway that led behind the altar into the rooms reserved for the priests and the servants of Diermani. Two priests approached them, headed toward the main hall, and Kobel realized the bell had summoned them as Raleveti ordered them to light additional candles and lead those gathered in a prayer of protection.
Moments later, Raleveti halted outside a simple wooden door, one like all of the others they’d passed in the winding corridors. “Wait here. I must retrieve something from my quarters.”
He pushed through the door, leaving it slightly open. Kobel heard the sounds of rustling paper, a cascade of books falling over, followed by half-muttered curses, then more rustling and the sound of drawers opening and closing. Finally, a barked, “Aha!”
Raleveti reappeared, expression serious. He shut the door behind him and continued down the hallway without a word.
Ten minutes later, he led Kobel through latticed double doors inset with intricately-carved panels with symbols and images from Diermani’s Codex and into a small sanctuary that must have been reserved for the patris’ personal use. Six kneeling mats lined the narrow floor, facing an altar containing the tilted cross, reliquaries, a copper basin containing water, and other small religious objects, all on a shelf inside a niche. The walls were as intricately carved as the doors, the two to the left and right containing their own smaller niches behind latticework. The tiny room smelled of incense—myrrh and cloves and something Kobel couldn’t identify. The scent was heavy enough Kobel found himself drawing shallow breaths through his mouth so he wouldn’t cough. Raleveti didn’t appear affected.
After scanning the room, Kobel told his escort to wait outside; the space would be cramped if they all entered at once. They left the doors open.
Raleveti knelt before the altar, hand flowing smoothly through the standard genuflection as he murmured beneath his breath, his other hand clutching the chain and cross that adorned his neck. Kobel knelt behind him and to the left, listened restlessly to their breathing in the silence that followed, but started when Raleveti suddenly rose.
“The Hand of Diermani,” he said, and motioned to one of the side niches.
Kobel rose. “What needs to be done?”
“I looked through our records when this all began, before the Horde arrived here at Temeritt, but they weren’t exactly precise in their description. The general principle is simple.” He pulled an iron key from an inner pocket, unlocked the small lattice door, reached into the niche, and withdrew what looked like a simple clear glass orb. He held it out toward Kobel. “It works like the bonding vows. Place your hand on top. I’ll support it from below.”
“Like the bonding vows?” Kobel did what Raleveti suggested, resting his hand on the top of the orb. He knew of the bonding ritual. His wife’s vow rested against his chest beneath his shirt, the vial that contained their mixed blood suddenly warm against his skin. The vial was inset in an intricate knot of wires of copper, bronze, and gold. Echeri wore a similar pendant. “Will this require blood?”
Raleveti met his gaze. “Yes.”
Sharp pain stabbed up Kobel’s arm. His teeth clenched in reaction and he stifled a grunt, hissing instead, as the pain ended as quickly as it had come.
“Was that necessary?”
“The Hand of Diermani requires the blood of the current GreatLord and the residing patris.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
Raleveti smiled.
Kobel dropped his glare to the orb. His hand still clutched it, clawlike from the unexpected pain, but he released it now, shaking the dull ache from his fingers. The orb was no longer clear. Blood—he assumed his own and Raleveti’s—swirled inside as if caught in moving water. But unlike blood dripped into a stream, the tendrils remained intact, rather than fraying and diluting. At the heart of the orb, white light glowed, pulsing slightly.
There was no indication of how the blood had entered the orb—no aperture, no stopper—just like the bonding vows. And when Kobel glanced at his palm, he saw no marks. There was only a faint tingling in his skin, as if he’d been pricked with a thousand tiny needles.
“That was not like the bonding vows,” Kobel muttered, clenching and unclenching his fist. “The bonding was not that painful.”
“The pain was…unexpected. The description in the records didn’t mention that.” Raleveti turned and set the orb back in the gold circlet holder where it had rested in the niche, then closed and locked the lattice screen. The orb’s glow could still be seen, casting strange shadows from the latticework onto the walls. Kobel was silently gratified to see the patris massaging the palm of his own hand. “But it appears to have worked. Now…we wait.”
“No. It’s too late to wait. They won’t arrive in time. Now, we prepare to defend ourselves, to hold as long as possible, to attack when we can.”
“Then what was the Hand of Diermani for?”
“A warning to the king and the other GreatLords.” Kobel turned and headed toward the door. “Let us hope they notice and take heed.”
7
Colin woke with a start.
His first instinct was to suck in a deep breath, but his entire chest felt hollowed out and empty, yet dense, as if someone had stacked layers upon layers of blankets over top of him. He managed a thin wheeze that choked off at the end with a thick gurgle that tasted of blood. He gagged on it, tongue slick as it spread the viscous fluid around his dry mouth. His lips were cracked, the skin across his face tight and gritty with dust. He opened his eyes and blinked up into the half-lit shadows of striated stone, gouged and smoothed by water.
He frowned. The taste of blood, the hollow in his chest, the cracked lips…it was all familiar. He’d woken like this once before. The time that he’d tried to kill himself. The time he’d thrust his dagger deep into his—
Memory flared, brighter than the sun, blinding him to the stone of the ceiling even though his eyes shot wide open. Sheared off towers filled his vision instead: the bowl, the building clutched in its center, the massive open pit of the Well surrounded by shards of crystal caught in the white-blue glow of the Lifeblood as it surged higher, the Well awakening, pulsing with life. Then the appearance of the Shadows.
And Walter.
Pain seared through him as he felt again the sword pierce up through his chest from behind, its tip jutting out from his torso as his own blood gushed from the wound and smeared its length. Walter’s hand clutched at his shoulder, fingers digging in to hold him steady as the force of the thrust eased. Then the Wraith’s breath touched the skin of his neck, shockingly hot and humid—or perhaps it was his own skin that had abruptly cooled—as Walter whispered, “You never did open yourself completely to the Lifeblood and all it offered as I did, did you?”
Colin hadn’t answered, couldn’t have answered, even after Walter drew the blade free and let him fall. Blood filled his mouth, his lungs; bile burned his throat. His entire body seethed with excruciating pain, but even that was fading, his arms and legs going numb. A haze of yellow infiltrated the edges of his sight, seeping inwards, obscuring Walter, the chamber that housed the newly awakened Well, the stars and the night sky above. A moment before he lost consciousness completely, he thought he saw arrows streak past, trailing white fire.
He forced the vibrant flare of memory back, focused on the striated stone above, forced himself to feel the heat in the air that surrounded him, to draw that heat into his protesting lungs, even though it woke a deep-seated ache in his chest. He tried to lift his arm, couldn’t, but found he could use his fingers to crawl across his feverish skin toward the hollow in his torso. Before he reached it, he ran into bandages tied tight beneath his armpits.
He had nearly finished exploring these with his fingers—mostly dry, with a spot of slick wetness near their center—when he heard someone gasp, followed by the clatter of loose stone.
Siobhaen appeared above him, her shadow blocking out some of the light. “You’re alive,” she breathed, then muttered a short stumbling prayer to Aielan as she felt his forehead, pinched the skin near his eyes, pressed fingers hard into his throat beneath his jaw.
He batted at her hands feebly. “I’m all right.”
“You’re far from all right.” But she withdrew slightly. “You should not even be alive.”
“I should have died two hundred years ago with Karen.” His hand suddenly flew to the bandages around his chest. “My pendant…the vow. Where is it?” Panic clawed up his throat, more sickening than the taste of blood, but Siobhaen caught his hand and squeezed it.
