The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) (23 page)

“I don’t know,” said Abernathy. “But it’s possible that there’s been some development involving the Kivian Arch itself, and that Levec is either still investigating it or has died as a result of it. Given the confluence of current events, with the Black Circle and the Sharshun emerging just as the portal in Verdshane has started to crack, it’s possible that the forces of evil, such as they are, have also opened the Kivian Arch or are in the process of opening it. If there’s someone masterminding all these efforts, perhaps they are trying to coordinate Naradawk’s arrival with military forces from Kivia.”

Ernie was utterly bewildered by all of this, not to mention terrified. What in all the Gods’ names was he doing smack in the middle of such tumultuous, world-threatening circumstances? The weight of so much responsibility was going to crush him.

“After you have gone to the Seven Mirrors,” said Abernathy, “it is possible that I will be…unavailable to debrief you. In that eventuality, I want you to go next to Seablade Point and determine what, if anything, is happening concerning the Kivian Arch. If our enemies are activating it, we may be able to use that to our advantage. Oh, and be discreet. Don’t mention the Spire, or the involvement of archmagi, unless absolutely necessary.”

“For how long will you be unavailable?” asked Aravia. “And I’m still waiting on those spellbooks, when you get the chance.”

“I don’t know how long,” Abernathy sighed. “I have now shared with you most of the known details about the perils the Kingdom of Charagan faces. You may need to show some additional initiative in the coming days or weeks, in case I find myself preoccupied.”

Ernie could read between the lines and found the idea unsettling. “Uh, sir? We’re not really world-saving heroes.” He cast an apologetic look at Tor, who had opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t you have anyone better?”

“I’m afraid not. During the years of peace that followed Naloric’s death, the Spire faded away to almost nothing. Once we counted the King of Charagan among our number, not to mention the dukes, several generals, priests from most of the Travelers and Pikon, and assorted other heroes of the realm. But you can keep a coalition together only for so many decades, during which meeting after meeting consists of aging wizards telling a room full of important people that there’s nothing new to talk about. Our gatherings became fewer, our membership dwindled.

“When King Garos died, his son King Argis decided that the Spire was no longer worth the trouble and expense. Oh, he understood, I think, the importance of what we wizards were doing, keeping Naradawk locked away in his prison world. But the Spire itself…King Argis felt it was a threat to his sovereignty, an organization that could act on its own and make decisions for the good of the kingdom even if the king personally disagreed with those decisions. So he ordered the archmagi to continue their work and disbanded the Spire.

“Now it’s just the five of us, and we spend all our time in our towers, keeping Naradawk out. Levec, our one outside agent other than yourselves, has stopped sending reports. I don’t mean to make you feel pressured, but right now the world is in danger and you seven represent our best opportunity to measure that danger, and possibly stop it.”

Ernie felt faint. “But—”

“With all due respect, your wizardliness,” Dranko interrupted, “that still doesn’t make sense. Spire or no Spire, we’re just…just some people. Tor’s a great fighter, sure, but there must be some Stormknights of Werthis who are better. And Aravia’s just an apprentice; that Serpicore guy she keeps talking about must be a more powerful wizard. And Delioch knows, you could have put on a blindfold and picked a better channeler than me. If Charagan is about to go to the Hells in a kingdom-sized hand-basket, why are you giving all the responsibility for it to a bunch of nobodies?”

“It’s a fair question,” said Abernathy. “My spell picked you, for reasons—”

“Yes, yes, you told us already,” interrupted Dranko. “For reasons you don’t understand. But where did that spell come from? Who told you to cast it? What are you not telling us?”

Abernathy’s face was oddly bulbous in the crystal ball, and it was hard to tell whom among them he was looking at, but Ernie thought the old wizard’s gaze flicked over to where Kibi and Aravia stood at the end of their semicircle. His bearded face crinkled into an apologetic smile.

“I don’t…I can’t tell you that, Dranko. You’ll have to believe me when I tell you that each and every one of you has a vital role to play in the days to come.”

Ernie couldn’t keep silent. “Even Mrs. Horn?”

Abernathy looked at them sadly but said nothing. Then a chime echoed from somewhere behind Abernathy, its sound floating out from the crystal ball. Ernie guessed by now what it signified—that Naradawk had his hands on the bars of his cell and was rattling them with extra vigor.

“The Seven Mirrors, and Seablade Point!” cried Abernathy, and the crystal ball went dark.

“Dammit, but I wish he’d stop doing that,” said Grey Wolf.

“That was ominous,” said Dranko.

“He was scared,” said Ernie. “Abernathy was scared.”

“No great puzzle ’bout that,” said Kibi. “Man’s been keeping Charagan safe for Gods know how long, and now it’s comin’ apart on ’im.”

“But he’s got us!” said Tor. “We’ll put things to rights, I know it.”

“I’d like to know what a Blood Gargoyle is,” said Grey Wolf. “I don’t suppose any of you have heard of it. Aravia?”

Aravia shook her head no, obviously irked that she didn’t know.

“My sisters might have information,” said Morningstar.

Ernie stared at her, surprised.

The Ellish priestess shrugged. “I suppose it’s not betraying a secret. It’s just that we don’t often have cause to discuss the inner workings of our sisterhood with outsiders. The Ellish Chroniclers maintain extensive historical libraries. The Temple of Ell has a presence in most major cities of Charagan, and I’ve heard the shrine here in Tal Hae has an extensive collection. I could send a letter, or go visit in person I suppose, and ask the Chroniclers to see if they have knowledge of a Blood Gargoyle. Or the Eyes of Moirel, or the Seven Mirrors, or even Abernathy himself.”

Grey Wolf frowned at her. “How come you haven’t mentioned we had that sort of resource at our disposal?”

“Because ‘we’ don’t,” said Morningstar sharply. “Ellish archives are not public. Even now I’m not certain that I’m comfortable asking the Chroniclers to do research for the benefit of a wizard’s agenda.”

“But Abernathy’s protecting the kingdom!” said Ernie. “Surely your sisters will understand how important this is!”

“The Ellish temple is not known for its trusting nature. I can ask, but the Chroniclers are going to want to know
why
I want this information, and there’s a good chance they won’t believe anything I say about Naradawk and his otherworld prison.” Her face grew taut as she added, “And if any of my reputation has leaked across the bay from Port Kymer to Tal Hae, it’s not going to help our chances.”

“Morningstar, you’re a practical person,” said Grey Wolf. “We’ve seen that recently. You’ll still ask them, won’t you?”

Morningstar nodded, her face neutral. “Yes, I’ll ask. I’ll go over there tonight. The worst they can do is…well, they can laugh and shut the door in my face. And tomorrow morning we’ll have breakfast, wave at the sun, and pay these Seven Mirrors a visit. Don’t want to miss Flashing Day, do we?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

TEMPLES TO THE Goddess Ell, large or small, shared a distinct architectural style that went beyond their monochromatic color scheme. Yes, they were painted uniformly black, such that persons not raised in darkness would perceive them as disquietingly featureless. But with her darksight, Morningstar could see that oversized upside-down triangles embellished the side walls, along with impressive pointed tympana speckled with smaller triangular adornments. The point-down black triangle was the holy symbol of the Ellish religion, representing the shield of darkness that would protect the innocent from nocturnal dangers.

No lamps or torches burned around the Tal Hae cathedral’s exterior, and its position in the city, nestled among other tall buildings, shielded it (quite intentionally) from more distant ambient light, but its detail was clear enough. Its familiar designs gave Morningstar comfort; they confirmed her time with Horn’s Company had not diminished her darksight.

The triangles might also have reminded her that the dictates and will of the Goddess were a constant, no matter the petty judgments of the sisters who served Her. But after the Mouth of Nahalm, she suspected more than ever that the judgment of Ell Herself had already been passed against her.

As she approached the dark front door and knocked, her apprehension grew. Had her reputation arrived here before her? She breathed deeply and sought for inner calm.

The door opened. A young novice stood in the doorway, black hair cut short.

“Good midnight,” said Morningstar.

“And to you.” The girl, no older than fifteen, stared at Morningstar, puzzled. Morningstar was wearing her Ellish robes but probably looked like an imposter with her snow-white hair and sunburned skin.

“I am Sister Morningstar from Port Kymer. I am here to speak with the Chroniclers. May I enter?”

The novice looked distinctively uncomfortable. “Oh, yes, forgive me. I am Sister Adriana. Please, sister, come in. I am sorry that you have missed the start of the midnight service, though you are welcome to attend what remains of it.”

Morningstar stepped into the darkened narthex and instinctively let her fingertips trail along the walls. Like the Ellish buildings in Port Kymer, the cathedral here featured tactile artwork at elbow height, black-on-black but textured so it could also be “seen” with one’s fingertips.

“I would be honored,” she said. Morningstar couldn’t help but feel nervous. On the one hand she might be better accepted after taking part in the temple’s holy traditions. On the other, being seen by more sisters increased the chance that she would be recognized, or at least be made an object of unwanted curiosity. Sister Adriana led her into the back of the nave, where she sat as unobtrusively as possible on a short padded bench. To her left, high up in a loft, was a choir three times the size of the one at Port Kymer. Its sound was hauntingly lovely, the hymn a traditional chant on a common theme: venerating Ell and Her role in allowing the Traveling Gods to escape the Great Adversary.

According to scripture, the Traveling Gods had fought a long and terrible war against the Great Adversary, in which most of the Gods had been slain. Only six survived, but those half dozen were able to imprison the Adversary before fleeing across the universe to the world of Spira. Ell’s role had been to weave a net of impenetrable blackness about the Adversary’s head, so that He stumbled blindly into His prison while the other Gods gathered Their mortal flocks for the journey. Afterward those six Gods—Ell, Brechen, Werthis, Delioch, Corilayna, and Uthol Inga—arrived on this new world and reached an accord with Pikon, god of the fields, who already claimed the native mortals of Spira as His own.

Morningstar found the notion of warring Gods to be hopelessly abstract, but there was a disturbing parallel between Abernathy’s locked-up monster and the Gods’ imprisoned Adversary. She shook her head. It was extremely unlikely that the archmagi had, literally, a God-killer held captive.

There were more than three dozen sisters attending the midnight service, and some of these had turned around on their benches to look at her. Now two were leaning and whispering to one another. She sat up straighter. So what if she attracted attention, she decided. Let them think what they would.

When the songs had been sung, the prayers uttered, the devotions made, and the service ended, Morningstar stood and stretched while the sisters dispersed. A tall woman approached, appearing from a transept. She was older, perhaps in her early forties, and wore a disapproving frown.

“Sister Morningstar?”

Morningstar sighed at the undisguised contempt, but she retained her poise.

“I am,” she said. “The service was lovely. I’m impressed by the chorale. Our singers at Port Kymer are not half as well trained.”

“I’m sure your sisters back home will enjoy your criticisms,” said the sister.

“I’m sorry,” said Morningstar. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“I am Sister Corinne. Adriana tells me you are here to speak to the Chroniclers. Might I know your business with them?”

“I wish to learn about a certainly legendary creature,” Morningstar said cautiously.

“Being one yourself?”

Morningstar blinked. “Excuse me?”

“What happened to your face? It almost looks as though you have been out in the sun.”

You have no idea. But I’m not about to share anything with you, Sister Corinne.

“Yes, it does look that way.”

“I know who you are, Morningstar. I have heard the tales from Port Kymer of the White Anathema. We had hoped you would never come here, bringing the disfavor of Ell with you. I hope your stay is short.”

Morningstar’s emotional armor held. She thought again of her blistering march across the Mouth of Nahalm and what it meant to suffer truly the disfavor of Ell. She smiled thinly. “I hope so too. If you could point me toward the library, I can make my own way, and you need not suffer my presence any longer.”

Sister Corinne gestured toward a door near the left side of the narthex. “Through that door, down the stairs. The library is in the basement. Ask for Sister Previa.” Corinne turned her back and strode off without any of the customary parting words or gestures.

* * *

The Tal Hae archive lived up to its billing; it was enormous, stretching nearly the entire length of the cathedral, several dozen arched vaults connected by short stone walkways and miniature flights of stairs. Morningstar inhaled the scents of dust and parchment as she wandered through the vaults, and it was several minutes before she found a librarian.

“I am looking for Sister Previa.” She kept her voice polite but braced for the inevitable.

“You have found her.” The woman was slight and plain-faced, her black hair tied up in a bun skewered with a pair of ebony sticks. She peered at Morningstar with obvious curiosity.

“I am Sister Morningstar of Port Kymer,” she said. “I wish to commission some research.”

Previa smiled at her. “You are the infamous Sister Morningstar? Have you come to throw me into the sun?”

“No,” said Morningstar, taken aback. “The sun is much too far away for that.”

Previa gave a little laugh. “Thank the Goddess.” She looked Morningstar up and down. “From the stories, I expected the White Anathema to be brandishing unholy fire and threatening us with curses. I’m disappointed.”

The Morningstar back at Port Kymer wouldn’t have known how to react to someone sharing a friendly jest, but her time with Horn’s Company had given her some practice.

“I make it a point to not bring unholy fires into libraries,” she said.

“A wise policy,” Previa agreed.

Morningstar glanced back toward the stairwell. “I met Sister Corinne after midnight services. From her attitude, I thought I might find myself unwelcome to everyone here.”

Previa smiled again, a wide, warm smile. “Only to the small-minded among us. We’ve all heard about Sister Morningstar, the White Anathema of Port Kymer, but the rumors only made me think there must be a poor white-haired sister there with a great deal of patience. I apologize for any mistreatment you endure here in Tal Hae, but I assure you it won’t come from me. Now, how may the Chroniclers be of service to you?”

In Port Kymer, other than her Shield trainer Clariel, the sisters had all been either coldly distant or overtly disdainful. Could she have found a true ally among the Ellish sisterhood?

“I find myself in unusual circumstances,” she began. She hadn’t intended to share any more about herself than was necessary, but faced with such plain acceptance, the words spilled forth before she could stop them. “The High Priestess Rhiavonne has given me dispensation to walk beneath the sun and ordered that I work under the Archmage Abernathy for the good of the kingdom. In that capacity, I am here to learn about some topics that have arisen.”

She stopped and bit her tongue. Previa was staring at her with wide eyes. Had she ruined this nascent could-be friendship by admitting too much truth?

“Goddess,” Previa breathed. “I’ve never…I mean, I can’t imagine…”

“It’s every bit as unpleasant as it sounds,” said Morningstar.

Previa shook her head. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure that’s not doing your reputation any favors,” Previa added.

“I haven’t told anyone else within the sisterhood,” said Morningstar. “And I’d prefer it stay private, if you don’t mind.”

Previa looked at her thoughtfully. “Of course. Interesting times we live in, no?”

“Previa, I’ve been out of my temple for some weeks now. What do you mean?”

“Of course, you wouldn’t know then. The Dreamseers have been having the same recurring Seer-dreams of late, of some huge object, like a meteor, streaking out of the sky and smashing into Spira. In some of these dreams the object is a deadly, decidedly non-Ellish black, and in others it is blindingly white. The Seers also argue about whether these are augurs of the future or visions of the past. No one knows what to make of it.”

Morningstar almost blurted out that she too had been recently made a Dreamseer, but she had shared enough secrets already.

“It’s interesting,” Previa continued. “I’ve never heard of a sister granted full permission to walk in daylight, but here you are…”

“You think I’m the white meteor?”

“The thought did occur to me. But if you are, don’t smash up my library. Now, please, how may I help you in my official capacity?”

Morningstar started with only two requests: that Previa find out what she could about Eyes of Moirel and Blood Gargoyles. Previa showed immediate and keen interest and promised she could dig something up within days.

“I’ll send what I find to the Greenhouse,” she promised. “And you should feel free to return here, either for more information or just to talk. This is your home as much as it is mine, Morningstar of Ell. Don’t let the Corinnes of the world convince you otherwise.”