The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 2

  "Foolishness. It's just a little rain." There had always been antagonism between the Daughters of Enlil and the Holy Order of Aern. It was true—many who had been devoted to Aern had begun praying to Enlil, but Enlil wasn't a jealous god. She wished she could say the same for Aern. The new gods, who were called Guardians, sought single-minded worship. The old gods, however, were beyond fickle vices such as jealousy, which was why Edoma had devoted herself to Enlil and not Aern.

  "It's more than rain," said Mildryd. "Lightning forks across the heavens. The thunder sounds like the gods doing battle."

  Edoma rolled her eyes. Mildryd had a penchant for exaggeration. She was likely just feeding the novices' fears.

  With a brief word of thanks to Mildryd, Edoma left her room and went into the Novice Hall. Women clad in yellow robes were nestled together like litters of newborn pups.

  "You expect to become Daughters, and you're scared of a storm?" she called out.

  A novice stood, a plump girl who'd been the orphan of a wealthy noble from Winhurst. "They say Aern has grown angry. What can we do against him?"

  The temple walls shook. The novices whimpered. Edoma wrinkled her nose at their lack of faith. Enlil might not be visible like Aern was within an orb, but that was because he wasn't trapped within a crystal prison. "Who are they?" she asked.

  The plump novice bowed her head. "The acolytes of the Holy Order."

  Edoma barked a laugh. "Of course they would say that. They would say anything to make you think Aern is greater than Enlil."

  Edoma spotted Fryda leaning against the far wall. She appeared unaffected by these stories. Edoma called to her, and she sauntered over.

  "You don't think the same as the others?" Edoma asked, trying to ignore the torn hems of Fryda's robes and the way her hair fought free of its braid.

  "It's like you said, the priests will say things to make us feel less than them. I don't like storms much, but I'm not about to lose my mind." Fryda glanced around at the other novices, who were still clutching each other. Unlike the other novices, she was Fatherless. She had stumbled through Indham's gates when she was two years old, and she had been one of the oldest to survive the mind disease that afflicted so many others. All the adults had died.

  "While I'm gone, make the novices see sense," Edoma said.

  Fryda nodded. "I'll do my best, but I can't promise anything." Despite being Fatherless, the other Daughters looked up to her, even those who had taken vows. If she couldn't calm the other novices, no one could.

  Suddenly, pain lanced through Edoma's core. A vision came to her of the altar at Tyme's Hill, the golden hands empty, and the shattered remains of Aern's orb.

  The vision faded, leaving Edoma lightheaded. Unable to stand, she fell onto Fryda.

  "What is it?" Fryda said. She called out for a healer.

  Edoma steadied herself, the pain subsiding.

  The paroxysm was less of a shock than the vision. She had felt a similar pain while she had been eating dinner in the hall, but she thought it was just a pang of old age. The vision that had flashed before her eyes was new. It could only mean one thing—Aern's orb had been destroyed.

  It couldn't have been long ago, and it was likely the reason for this storm.

  There was only one person in Indham who might have the means of committing this sacrilege.

  Without a word to the novices, and still wearing her tools, she ran to the Basilica.

  4

  Idmaer

  From atop the spire, Idmaer gazed at the tumultuous heavens. Thunder rumbled and lightning slashed across the firmament, illuminating Indham with azure flashes before relinquishing it to the darkness again. Since the First Priest had brought the Guardians into the world, Aern had guarded the region against such storms. But now, without his protection, unbridled heavenly power rained from the sky. Beyond Indham's walls, a single thread of lightning split the air, and a tree exploded into flames and splinters.

  After hearing Hiroc's recount of the empty altar, Idmaer had struggled to breathe. According to Hiroc, the gods had responded to his prayers and struck the giant with lightning. At Idmaer's insistence, Hiroc had sworn not to mention a word of this to anyone. The last thing Idmaer wanted was to discover that Hiroc was Talented. Saega had come soon after and seconded the account.

  Idmaer had contemplated going to the altar, but the storm was confirmation of the story. Besides, the journey to the altar would take a few hours—hours he didn't have. He needed to inform the right people to stop the wrong people from finding out what happened.

  Only now was Idmaer breathing normally again. Of his fifty years, thirty of them had been as a priest, but all of them had known Aern's protection. Now Aern was gone. Stripped from the altar by something with enough power to render a Guardian defenseless.

  Idmaer turned toward Tyme's Hill. On most nights it could be seen from his spire, but tonight it lay hidden behind the thick fog.

  Idmaer closed his eyes as the roar of destruction washed over him. No human sounds punctuated the leaden evening. At first, children had scuttled out from their homes to play in the rainfall, but the viciousness of the storm drove them back inside. The tradesmen and merchants had been smarter. They closed shop as soon as the first raindrop hit their thatched rooftops. There were over six thousand people living in Indham. Another thousand or so came and went while on their pilgrimages. Every one of them would be devastated to the point of panic if they learned what had transpired today.

  Something would need to be done to hide the truth from them.

  Careful of the slick stone, Idmaer walked down from the parapet and entered his study. Water dripped from his cloak as he laid it on the rack beside Hiroc, who hadn't moved from the chair in front of the fireplace.

  Idmaer gripped his braid in both hands and wrung it out, then did the same with his graying beard. He draped a dry cloak over his shoulders and kneaded his numb hands. A slight extension of his hand toward the fire and the spire responded. The bricks shifted like living organisms until the fireplace was three times larger. Pleased with the spire's response to his command, he brought more firewood to the furnace, and the flames licked them up.

  Hiroc shivered uncontrollably. The roaring fire seemed to provide him little comfort. Idmaer pulled the dry cloak from his shoulders and covered Hiroc with it, pushing the corners underneath his collar.

  "It's gone," Hiroc said. After recounting what had happened at Aern's altar, they were the only words he would speak, and he continued saying them again and again. It was possible that he'd said them even while Idmaer was out on the observation deck.

  Only eighteen years old and Hiroc had witnessed what so few ever would: an altar without its orb. Edoma, Idmaer's estranged wife, had come from a region whose orb had been shattered. She had refused to speak of it. Idmaer had always thought that much of the difficulties of their marriage had been caused by whatever trauma remained from that past event.

  Idmaer could only hope that the night's events hadn't broken Hiroc beyond repair. Hiroc without his confidence, a brashness impervious to all, was like a woodsman without his ax, a priest with no god. Idmaer poured two goblets of firewine and forced one into Hiroc's hand. But he didn't drink, nor did he stop staring vacantly into the fireplace.

  In Hiroc's visage was the fear that would proliferate through Indham unless this event was kept secret. The rest of Indham was ignorant of the storm's true nature, but an event of this magnitude would loosen tongues and ignite every gossipmonger from here to Wostreheim. Even the Council couldn't learn the entire truth.

  Wulfnoth was tracking the giant now. It should be a simple task for a man as skilled as he was. After all, a giant should be easy to find. But what would they do when they found him? A man who could shatter a carcaern orb wouldn't be captured easily.

  Idmaer left Hiroc and stepped into the hallway. Torrential rains buffeted the spire, causing it to shake and sway.

  Idmaer retrieved a silver bell from his pocket and rang it. A mome
nt later, Alfric approached the hallway. He rubbed his eyes as if just waking from a deep sleep. The smell of ale on his breath suggested he'd been drinking on the job. Had Idmaer not adored the lad, he might have scolded him.

  Alfric wasn't the most ingenious porter, more suited to attracting the eyes of women than performing the menial tasks Idmaer required of him. But employment provided better hope than the bottom of an ale mug. A good portion of the Fatherless were employed in one fashion or another within the spire—one of many decisions that had earned Idmaer detractors through the years.

  Alfric looked at Idmaer with half-open eyes and stifled a yawn.

  "When Wulfnoth returns, have him sent to my spire," Idmaer said. Wulfnoth was the only man he trusted to go to the altar. Someone would need to clean it, gather the orb shards, and not speak a word of it to anyone. The families of the dead guards would also need to be told a story. "Then call the Council. We must find the reason why Aern has been weakened so greatly."

  Alfric's eyes shot open, dispelling any trace of sleepiness. "Aern has been weakened?"

  "How else do you explain these storms?" Idmaer said as if this was the only sensible explanation.

  Alfric smiled for a second, and then frowned. "That is terrible."

  The slight smile didn't go unnoticed. Idmaer had planned on the lad detecting a morsel of information that would be valuable to the right people.

  Alfric chewed his lip. "There's something else I must talk with you about."

  Idmaer didn't have the time, but he decided to hear Alfric out anyway.

  "I won the tournament," said Alfric.

  "Then you're to be a warrior." Idmaer smiled. Despite the atrocity that had happened earlier that day, this was a proud moment.

  "What I wish to ask you is whether Oswin can take my position as porter. He is a reliable worker. It would mean so much to him if you—"

  Idmaer raised his hand. "Say no more. It will be done. Have Oswin come along tomorrow. You can teach him the processes."

  With a thank you, Alfric bowed and hurried out. It wouldn't be long before every person in Indham believed the poor weather was because Aern had been weakened. It was a superb misdirection. Had the situation not been so dire, Idmaer would have been pleased with himself.

  Idmaer returned to his room.

  The rain had not been able to remove all the blood from Hiroc's robes. His knees were stained scarlet. Whether the blood was from the Guardian or the Guardian's killer, Idmaer didn't know. He struggled to believe that a god existed within a carcaern orb. Regardless, their protection had been removed.

  Hiroc nodded slowly, raised the firewine to his lips, and drank until the goblet was empty. Wine trailed down his chin, but he seemed oblivious.

  "I was too headstrong," he said. "I should never have gone to the altar alone today. The others stayed inside because of the storm. I called them cowards."

  "If you didn't go, then others would have found the altar defiled. Better you than them, I say."

  Hiroc dropped his head into his hands as if to weep. When he looked up, his eyes were dry.

  "You are right," he said. The terror had vanished. "What must I do now?"

  "Still your tongue. The rest of the acolytes cannot know what happened to Aern. We will also need to forbid all pilgrimages to Tyme's Hill."

  "This seems like a lot of trouble for a lie."

  "It's the only way," Idmaer said. "It is too difficult for men to believe Guardians can be killed." A bard had been executed for speaking of broken orbs and godless altars. Idmaer had been listening to the bard's tale when Idmaer's father, the late High Priest Rowe, had stormed into The Flaming Monkey with a dozen armed warriors and had the bard arrested. It wasn't long after that he was hanged. The bard's stories were stamped out before the crows had picked the flesh from his bones.

  "It doesn't seem right to deceive the Council."

  "Do you wish to be hanged from the gallows?" Idmaer didn't care to tell Hiroc the story of the bard, but it was a reasonable question nonetheless.

  Even though Hiroc might not have known where the question had come from, he shook his head vigorously.

  "Neither do I."

  5

  Edoma

  Warriors filtered in and out of the multi-leveled buildings in the Basilica Quarter. They questioned acolytes and priests who rubbed their eyes and stifled yawns. The Holy Order had strict rules about when to sleep and when to wake, but there would be no sleeping tonight. The sounds of crashing thunder would see to that.

  Saega's home was a standalone chalet located next to the acolyte commons. Candlelight flickered through the window. Edoma went to the door.

  "What's your business here?" a voice called out from behind her.

  Edoma turned and saw Bertram, the warrior who captained the town watch. "Excuse me?"

  "Mother Edoma." Bertram bowed at recognizing whom he had just challenged. "My apologies. There has been an incident. Idmaer has ordered us to search for anything suspicious."

  "Suspicious? What does he mean by that?"

  Bertram shrugged. "I'm not sure. But those are the orders."

  "You best be about following them."

  "Yes, your grace." Bertram bowed again and left.

  Idmaer had every bloody warrior searching the town. A mage who could shatter an orb wouldn't be easily found. Unless that mage was on the other side of this door.

  Edoma banged on the door with her staff. The door opened.

  "Edoma." Saega grinned as if this were an ordinary house call. He seemed older tonight, hunched over his fox-head staff.

  "Just what are you playing at? Acting like this isn't the worst night of your bloody life."

  "You felt it, too?"

  "Is there any other reason I'd be outside your home at this hour?"

  "Well, you're not the first person to knock on my door this evening," Saega said. "Would you like to come in?"

  "That depends." Edoma frowned. "Did you do it?"

  "Of course not," Saega said.

  Edoma saw a dark patch on Saega's tunic and leaped back. "Then why are your garments soaked?" Her instincts brought her hand to the hammer at her belt. "There's blood on your tunic."

  Saega looked down. "I'd better explain myself. Come inside."

  Edoma didn't move. She lifted the hammer from its slot.

  "Blood and bones, Edoma. Let go of that hammer and come in from the rain."

  No, he couldn't have done it. We both swore an oath.

  Edoma finally put the hammer back and followed Saega inside.

  In recent years, Saega had embraced the southern lifestyle, with all its excesses. Priceless tapestries covered the walls, illuminated by a hundred candles. Most likely there were more candles and expensive ornaments in Saega's storeroom than the entire town. Most notable was the absence of his wife, Bodil. Without her, the room seemed somehow empty.

  "I went to Tyme's Hill tonight," he said.

  Edoma's eyes widened. Perhaps she had been too quick to come inside his home. "You swore an oath!"

  "Edoma, please. We both threw our grimoires into the furnace." They'd done so after taking their oaths. Without the grimoires, they couldn't turn on the oaths even if they wanted to. Saega couldn't have done it. He handed her a bowl of broth before sitting on the couch beside her. "Something ill was afoot. I noticed the ravens circling Tyme's Hill three days in a row."

  She sighed, loudly enough for him to stop talking. He wasn't really an augur. He could no more read the ravens than she could read Kristnesian. Still, she apologized and let him continue.

  "A dark cloud gathered over the hill this morning. So I took Agnerod's Touch and ventured to Aern's altar. There I found the acolyte Hiroc fighting a giant. It was only Agnerod's Touch that prevented the giant from killing us both." He laid the staff over his lap. Edoma had a matching staff. She had never named hers, though. He had done so after reading about the two staves the First Priest had lost in the wilderness. It was impossible to know whether they were
the actual staves of legend since they would have to be thousands of years old. Edoma and Saega had taken them from a band of orcs in the Scorched Lands. Even though they'd both sworn not to use magic again, they'd allowed themselves the use of the staves.

  "A giant?" she asked. "Could it be another northern mage?"

  Saega shrugged. "He fled before I could make him out. Maybe the giant was merely a servant. Maybe he was the shatterer. I do not know. By the time I assisted Hiroc, the giant was nowhere to be seen."

  "The guards?"

  "All dead."

  "So if it wasn't you," Edoma said as she tried to settle into the goose feather cushions, "who was it?"

  "Of course it wasn't me. What would I have to gain from fulfilling our mission now? We abandoned it twenty years ago. I like my life in Indham, even if it's gotten a little sad in the last few years."

  Edoma couldn't believe he would look for sympathy in their present circumstances. She pressed on with the topic at hand. "There must be other mages who've taken up our oath. But why now?"

  "I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner."

  Edoma sipped from the broth, allowing the warmth to calm her nerves. She couldn't help feeling terrified. If another northern mage had come to Indham, that meant they might have finally been discovered.

  "There was nothing in the scrying crystal," Saega said.

  Edoma shot to her feet. "You used the crystal? What happens if the others see you?" She sank back into the cushions, defeated. It didn't matter if the other mages knew where they were now. The orb was shattered. Their mission was fulfilled, even if it had been completed by a mage other than them. "Then there's no trace of the mage who shattered the orb?"

  "None at all. You're welcome to try for yourself."

  Edoma shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do was taste the allure of the other-realm. "How is that possible? Could the murderer somehow be masking himself?"