The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 4

  "It's a little dark," Fryda said in jest. It was too dark to see her face, but Edoma knew she would be grinning.

  The darkness was no hindrance as Edoma found her way across the corridor to the sconce and lit the torch. The domed entrance flickered into dazzling colors as the light touched the wall paintings and floor mosaics.

  "It's beautiful," Fryda said. The colors reflected on her face, which, as Edoma had surmised, was peeled back in a full-toothed grin.

  "There was a lot of dust before I came down here." After the long, lonely, and grueling hours with the smallest scrubbing brush known to man and a bucket of water, she uncovered a small square of the beauty beneath the dust and debris. The days had stretched into months, and then years, and she'd never allowed herself to appreciate the beauty truly. The quest to find the tomb of the First Priest, hidden somewhere within these vast catacombs, prevented that. "It took many hours. There's still a long way to go, but it's a start."

  Fryda wasn't listening. She was too busy darting from one wall to another, reciting the epic tales represented in the paintings. At first, Edoma was surprised that Fryda knew how to read them—most were in runes—but Fryda had always loved learning. Perhaps she had been a fool not to invite the novice into the catacombs sooner.

  "Do you mind if I have a look around?" Fryda called from the entrance to a side-passage. She had taken a torch from one of the sconces. "Don't worry. I won't touch anything."

  "Make sure you don't. I haven't seen any traps, but that doesn't mean there aren't any." Edoma smiled as Fryda disappeared down the passageway.

  Wishing she could experience the catacombs with the same delight as Fryda, Edoma wandered down the hallway, lighting each torch until the hall was as bright as daylight. The hall ended at a grand door, etched in symbols and runes in a forgotten language and fashioned from godstone. Within the rune was a drawing of the First Priest. His white beard trailed to a belt cinched around gold-trimmed robes. A golden medallion hung from his neck. It was passed down through an unbroken succession of priests. Idmaer now wore it.

  Not that he cared much for his office. Rumor was that he hadn't visited Tyme's Hill for months, possibly even years. Knowing that such thoughts would only cloud her mind, Edoma forced them away.

  The door she now stood before had been the single greatest obstacle in discovering the catacombs' secrets. Behind it lay the sarcophagus of the First Priest. At least that was what she had gathered. Every door in the catacombs had been opened, except this one. She hadn't learned how to open it, and she wasn't sure she ever would. The greatest engineer in all the south had been unable to invent a mechanism capable of levering it open.

  After that infuriating attempt, she had considered enlisting an alchemist, though she doubted even an explosive potion would scratch the door's surface. An explosion might also destroy the relics within the entrance hall, each with their own runes that Edoma hadn't completely deciphered. For all she knew, the key to opening the door was hidden in the riddles depicted on every surface, statue, and tomb. The First Priest apparently loved riddles.

  What she had come down to see was the door. She thought maybe it would be opened, the giant having stolen the First Priest's grimoire from the tomb.

  But that wasn't the case. The door was as closed as always, staring Edoma in the face like a token of her failure.

  Fryda passed by with glee and was about to step into another room when Edoma called out to her.

  "Come," she said, "we must return to the surface."

  "But we've been here but a moment." Fryda's robes were filthy now, as though she had crawled through some of the passageways. "I want to explore. I've never seen anything like this."

  "There will be more time for exploring," Edoma said, though she doubted there would be. The wraiths would be upon them soon. The same thing that happened to Mundos all those years ago would happen to Indham. She wouldn't be able to save them, just as she hadn't been able to save all those people in Mundos.

  There was only one thing she could do—attempt to use magic again. She couldn't remember exactly how to draw the wards of protection, but she knew that they would require blood. A lot of blood.

  8

  Fryda

  Fryda awoke to the sound of ringing bells. After a long day with Edoma in the catacombs, she and Alfric had drunk what felt like all the ale in Indham. He had started training with the warriors two days ago, and he hadn't stopped complaining the entire time about how sore he was. She had tried to speak with him about the catacombs beneath Enlil's Temple, but he hadn't been interested.

  Propping herself up on one elbow, Fryda examined how much damage the rain had done to her room. Dawn's light filtered through a hole in the roof where water trickled into a wooden bucket; Fryda's drunken attempt at stopping more water from coming in. The bucket now overflowed as droplets continued to fall into it.

  Jaruman had adopted Fryda as his daughter, so the best room in The Flaming Monkey had been hers. The best room wasn't all that good, but in comparison to sleeping in Enlil's Temple with the other novices, it was bliss.

  Most of the Fatherless weren't given that kind of charity, and Fryda didn't feel like she deserved it. Still, she was grateful. Jaruman had done more than just give her a bed to sleep in and food to fill her belly—he'd also taught her how to fight. What he lacked in innkeeper skills, he made up for in fighting prowess. He had been a warrior from beyond the Scorched Lands. On the first day he brought her into his home, he'd taken her to the cellar, given her a short spear, and taught her how to use it. "Women are often smaller than men, but that doesn't mean they have to be victims," he had said. He'd given her other weapons to practice with, but she preferred spears.

  Fryda picked herself off from the hay bedding and removed her nightclothes.

  Her head rang again, this time louder. That wasn't her headache, but the town bells ringing.

  Before she could dress, Alfric burst through the door.

  "Fryda, you must come. The warriors are setting off on a quest." His scarred face was peeled back in a mischievous grin.

  Fryda grabbed her bed sheets and held them to her chest.

  Alfric's mouth dropped and his cheeks flushed. He turned around and said, "Quickly. Get dressed."

  Fryda glanced at her yellow novice robes. Novice prayer would begin at Enlil's Temple soon. If one of the other Daughters saw her traipsing around the town, she would be given chores. Deciding that she was less likely to get caught wearing ordinary clothes, Fryda slipped on a blouse and then a dress over the top. She hiked up her skirts and waded through the murky sludge that had gathered in puddles.

  Alfric tapped his foot impatiently, apparently forgetting the fact that he'd just seen her naked. "Hurry, or we're likely to miss them."

  Fryda rolled her hair into a bun and slipped her hairpin through it. Jaruman had given the hairpin to her as an adoption present. "I don't have much money," he had said. "The inn makes sure of that. But the pin once belonged to my daughter back in Mundos. I want you to have it." So now Fryda never left without it. Her fiery curls were long and unruly besides.

  Alfric pulled her out from her room before she could put her sandals on. She clutched them in her hand as they walked down the steps, wiping the sleep from her eyes and fixing wayward curls beneath the pin. "What's this about a quest?"

  He whirled around, a dangerous gleam in his eye. "Remember how Idmaer told me Aern has grown weak and that's the reason for the storms?"

  Fryda nodded as she slipped her feet into her sandals. "I don't know why you believe Idmaer. He lies all the time."

  Alfric shrugged. "It makes sense. What else could be causing the storms?"

  Fryda smiled politely. "You're being superstitious. There were far worse storms last winter."

  Alfric raised an eyebrow. "It's summer."

  He had a point. Storms like this weren't meant to happen during summer.

  "And the quest?" she said, intertwining her fingers in his.

  "You'll s
ee soon enough," Alfric said, dragging her outside.

  A small crowd gathered in the courtyard beneath Indham's gate. Fryda had seen the gates a thousand times, but she'd never grown accustomed to their immense height, crafted with what looked like metal, though they bore no signs of rust. Neither did they reflect the sunlight as metal ought to do. Instead, they seemed to swallow it.

  Priests, Daughters of Enlil, warriors, peasants, and Fatherless all gathered in the courtyard. There were even acolytes—who so infrequently left the Basilica—leaning against the gatehouse, easily distinguished by their midnight blue robes with plum-colored tabards. The men of the warrior's watch monitored the sea of people from atop the walls.

  Alfric dragged her through the masses. Fryda pulled away, refusing to be tugged along like a mule. She approached a cart outside the gatehouse stables and looked at it with interest. Climbing it would provide a better view.

  Alfric smirked at Fryda. "How about you let me pick you up, and you can sit on top of the cart?"

  "A lady doesn't sit on carts," she joked. She'd never been a lady, but Alfric had always teased her about the other Daughters. Most of them were highborn sent from all over the continent to become consecrated virgins, and those who weren't pretended they were.

  Alfric shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  He always refused to play along. Rather than let him win, Fryda pressed through the crowd. She only got a few paces in before a hard shove and a mud-covered fall sent her back to Alfric.

  "I'll sit on the bloody cart," she said to him.

  He laughed as he surveyed her grubby dress. "Bloody? That's not the talk of a lady." He held out his hand. Fryda took it begrudgingly. Suddenly she was hoisted above his head and placed on the cart.

  She had to admit, the view was perfect. She could see the entrance archway clearly. There was no sign of the warriors yet. The warriors were likely eager for the opportunity to go questing. After they'd stopped fighting the nomads and Indham had been in relative peace, there hadn't been much for them to do. Many of them had gone to fight in Beorhtel's army. Those who remained were mostly untrained or too old to fight in wars.

  Hiroc, Alfric's brother, was standing outside The Flaming Monkey. Strange that they hadn't seen him earlier. He must have just arrived there. Even from this distance, there was clearly something wrong with him. He seemed to be lurking in the shadows, afraid someone might see him.

  Intrigued, Fryda jumped down from the cart. Mud splashed at Alfric, but she didn't stop to apologize.

  "Where are you going?" he called.

  Fryda looked over her shoulder and winked. Some of the people glared at her and muttered curses. Without her Daughters robes, she was just a Fatherless. It was odd how many of them knew that, even in a town of six thousand. As usual, she ignored them.

  She came upon Hiroc leaning against the front wall of The Flaming Monkey.

  "Fryda," Hiroc said as if her presence had broken him from a trance. He cast a nervous look at the crowd. "What are you doing here?"

  "I could ask you the same question. Any reason why you're hiding here when everyone else is there?" She nodded toward the crowd behind them.

  Hiroc wore acolyte robes cinched tight around his waist and a belt knife. Beaded with sweat and popping with veins, his shaved head glistened in the sunlight. "I wanted to speak with Alfric. I thought maybe he might be in The Flaming Monkey."

  Fryda tilted her head, unsure what Hiroc couldn't speak with the other acolytes about. Ever since he had joined the Holy Order, he hadn't spent much time with the other Fatherless. He had shaved his head to better fit in with the acolytes, but he still looked like someone from north of Babon's Pass, with his olive skin and green eyes.

  Huffing, Alfric came alongside Fryda and smirked. "You're quicker than you look." He turned to Hiroc. "And you're looking in as high spirits as ever." He chuckled, but no one joined him.

  Something was different about Hiroc. There was no sign of his usual confidence. It had vanished behind eyes ringed with dark shadows.

  The muscles around Hiroc's cheeks grew taut. "Inside." He tilted his head toward the tavern's doors.

  They retreated into The Flaming Monkey. There was no one else sitting at the tables. The only sound was dripping water from a leak in the roof.

  Hiroc slumped onto a chair at the nearest table.

  "This quest," he said, "it's all because of me. Well, not really because of me. I was the one who saw what happened."

  Fryda frowned. "Why are you speaking like this?"

  Ignoring the question, Hiroc got up and walked over to the keg. He helped himself to a goblet of ale. He chugged the entire goblet in a few moments and sat down again.

  "How do I know I can trust you?" he asked. "You're both terrible at keeping secrets. I've been sworn to secrecy by Idmaer. But it's too grave to keep to myself."

  "I don't want to be here," Alfric said. "I'd much rather be outside waiting for the warriors."

  Hiroc sighed and wrung his hands.

  "Spit it out," Fryda said, though compassion tinged her words. She'd never seen Hiroc in a state like this. "Either you trust us or you don't."

  "Aern is dead." He said the words quickly, as though they tasted like ash on his tongue. "I saw the shattered remains of his orb at the altar."

  Fryda's eyes widened. It was a ridiculous concept, but so were the storms in summer. But Aern, dead? That was like the sun not rising in the morning. But Hiroc wouldn't lie. Nor would he state for a fact what was mere conjecture.

  "Shattered?" Fryda said.

  "It means broken," Alfric said.

  Fryda sneered. "I know what the word means. I just don't understand how it's possible."

  "It's not possible," Alfric said plainly. He shrugged his shoulders. "You must have been seeing things."

  "You know me better than anyone. I am not susceptible to fanciful visions."

  You think Aern talks with you, Fryda thought. If that's not crazy, I don't know what is.

  "All right," said Alfric. "I believe you."

  Hiroc studied Alfric's face. "Are you not concerned?"

  "Of course. But I don't think fretting will do any good."

  "You're a strange man," Hiroc said. "The Council was in an uproar when they learned Aern was weakened. Even the pilgrims sense that something is amiss. You know the true extent of what's happened, and you simply nod your head?"

  Alfric shrugged. Fryda knew he'd never been one to panic. He might as well have been a block of stone in stressful times.

  "It was hard to believe that Aern had been weakened," Alfric said. "For some reason, hearing that he's been killed is easier to swallow."

  "How did the murderers get past the guards?" Fryda asked.

  "They were killed, too. I've never seen anything like it. With their own spears. I saw a giant at the top of the hill. I didn't see him shatter the orb, but it had to have been him. I think he was alone. I fought him, and he would have killed me. Saega came, and the giant ran away."

  "Magic," Alfric whispered. "It must be magic."

  "But all the mages are in Lamworth," Fryda said.

  "Obviously not," Alfric said. "So this is what the Council was meeting about? What's the warriors' quest?"

  "The Council is sending Cenred and Sigebert to Eosorheim. They are going to ask Hurn to take us in."

  "The quest will surely fail if they send Cenred and Sigebert," Fryda said. She had never spoken to either of the warriors in person, but the rumor mill said they were more likely to solve conflict with their swords rather than their brains.

  "They aren't the most diplomatic men," said Alfric.

  "Who else ought to go?" Hiroc's tone indicated it was more a challenge than a question.

  "Us," Alfric said with a smile.

  9

  Edoma

  Ward after ward covered the stone courtyard of Enlil's Temple. The overhanging rooftop prevented the rain from washing away Edoma's hard work.

  The Daughters of Enlil had wanted to see
the warriors off on their quest, and Edoma had agreed to let them go. They'd stepped over the wards like they were poisonous. It was likely that none of them had seen blood magic before.

  Edoma was constructing the wards with the hopes of warding the warriors before they left for Eosorheim. It was unlikely they'd encounter any wraith clouds since they would be traveling northwest. But it wouldn't hurt to ward them.

  The wraiths would come from the northeast through Babon's Pass. Winhurst would be the first place within Aernheim to be hit, and they would light their signal fires as soon as they were under attack.

  Edoma stared at the machines Mildryd had retrieved from the dungeons of Idmaer's Spire. They were once used as torture devices to bleed out prisoners. Ropes hung a lamb in midair. A half-dozen iron arms reached up from the bottom of the device, cutting into the lamb's underside. Blood dripped along a narrow channel in the device's arms, trailing into a wine barrel at the bottom. Tonics made the lamb unconscious so it wouldn't feel any pain. It was important to keep it alive during the bloodletting process, but she didn't want it suffering.

  While the thought of what the machines might have been used for many years ago was gruesome, they were perfect for extracting the required blood from the lambs.

  After twisting a gear to begin extraction from another wound in the lamb's side, she wandered around the ward she'd just finished painting. It still wasn't right.

  Only the most powerful magic required the use of wards. Inconsequential magic, like healing minor wounds, could be done without them. But wards were required to protect against powerful creatures like wraiths.

  Squatting over the empty half-circle, she traced a number of runes. Every rune had to be drawn in blood because blood contained the lifesoul required to open the portal from this world to the realm of the gods. Edoma continued drawing wards in lamb blood, still unsatisfied. Each iteration was better than the last until finally she came upon a fair approximation of what she remembered.