Chapter 19
Alek
The soft rasp of footsteps brings my head up from the book I’ve been poring over. A twinge of pain shoots down my neck from the cramped posture I’ve held.
In my research fervor, I’ve been letting the good scholarly habits I learned in school and under my former mentor slide. I can almost hear one of the professors at Sovereign College chiding me. A healthy sitting position is essential to keep the body sound for long hours of reading in future years.
Maybe if my current line of inquiry didn’t feel so urgent, I’d find that maxim easier to remember.
The footsteps come to a stop at the doorway of the inner library room. Ivy peers inside with Casimir gazing over her shoulder. Ivy looks a little pensive, but the courtesan offers a smile sunny enough that I don’t think there’s any reason to worry.
At least, not any more than we already had.
“Can you put the books aside for a little while?” Ivy asks, a softer smile touching her own lips. “We figured it was about time you got some lunch into you.”
“And that you might appreciate some company for that lunch after all the time you’ve spent tucked away down here,” Casimir adds.
Before I can answer in words, my stomach rumbles, which I suppose is answer enough. With a bashful laugh, I get to my feet. “Thank you. My body is reminding me that I shouldn’t neglect it while I’m filling my head.”
Out of consideration for the many fragile documents in the library, my companions have set up their sort-of picnic on a low folding table in the fore-room at the bottom of the basement stairs. None of the books are kept there, only a small hearth and a few armchairs set along the walls for casual readers.
Stavros and Rheave are waiting for us, Stavros pouring out a ruddy juice into the glasses. He offers me a crooked grin. “I’d have brought wine, but I suspected you’d want to keep your thoughts as unmuddled as possible.”
Warmth forms in my chest at his recognition of and respect for my priorities. “That I do. Thank you.”
As I sit at one end of the table with Ivy and Casimir sinking down to complete the group, the warmth expands into a sense of total contentment. It’s a strange emotion to be feeling when we’re up against a country-wide conspiracy of sadistic sorcerers, but I can’t bear to dismiss it.
I’ve never had anything like this before—the kind of connection where you know you can count on each other no matter what you’re facing. Where you know you’re appreciated for who you are, not some task or favor that’s going to be asked of you.
My lover and my friends wanted to have lunch with me and make sure I knew they cared. I don’t know what kind of thanks could possibly express how much that means to me.
As is typical in the temple, the meal is simple fare but fresh: a salad of local greens, bread still warm from the oven, butter and cheese from the temple sheep—one of Elox’s symbolic animals. Every bite is deliciously tart or creamy.
As Rheave devours his own portion gleefully, he studies me from across the table. He pauses in between bites. “Have you found out anything interesting in all these books?”
I glance toward the stack I left behind with a regretful grimace. “Nothing in much detail so far, but I have a lot more to get through. And I suppose we don’t really know that Lothar will draw on actual historic rites with his new festival.”
Stavros hums. “It would make sense if he did at least a little, to give his ‘celebration’ an air of legitimacy. He might be a treacherous prick, but he’s a clever one.”
Ivy makes a face of disgust. “Yes, why invent a tribute to murder from scratch if you can simply borrow traditions from centuries ago?”
“Not just that.” Casimir’s voice is gentle but steady. “He may very well believe in his ideals of getting back to the ‘old ways’ and restoring the All-Giver, as awful as his methods are. In that case, it would make sense for him to incorporate as many of those old ways as he can.”
And that’s exactly why I’ve spent the past two days digging through every record from before the Darium invasion that I can find. The more we can anticipate what Lothar might enact with his soon-approaching festival, the more ideas we’ll have of how we can disrupt or make use of it to our own ends.
“I’ve found a few references that might point me in the right direction,” I say. “As soon as I find anything I think we should take into account, I’ll let you know.”
Ivy rests her hand on my arm. “We still have time. And if we can’t find anything that could help prepare us, we’ll just have to go and see it all with our own eyes. We’ve come up with pretty good plans in the moment before.”
We have, but I’d rather we went in prepared.
Once the meal is done and the remnants gathered, Ivy tugs me close for a quick kiss before following the other men upstairs. I return to my work with both my heart and my stomach full.
One avenue of research that’s been somewhat fruitful has been the oldest treatment records I’ve been able to unearth. I’ve come across an account of a patient treated by the temple devouts for a chemical burn it was hinted had something to do with a local celebration and another of a broken ankle sustained during a large-scale rumpus.
If any of those long-ago devouts were wordier in their accounts, I might get more details about exactly what those festivities and games entailed.
I finish paging through the book I was in the middle of and pick up another journal with handwriting so faded I find myself squinting even with the lantern near my shoulder. That volume does turn up another account of a similar burn, which the writer notes comes from a dye that’s apparently splashed around for reasons he doesn’t mention.
As I read, I jot down a few notes that I’m gradually assembling into a somewhat coherent picture.
The next book proves to be both incredibly brief in its notes and half-written in some private notation I can’t interpret. The volume I reach for after that I handle especially gingerly, careful of the flaking leather cover that drew me to it where it was buried at the back of a shelf.
It’s old enough that even the periodic waves of preservation magic cast through the library couldn’t totally protect it from the passage of time.
I’m several pages in when my eyes catch on the word riven.
The Temple of Tranquil Skies had dealings with a riven sorcerer? That isn’t likely to relate to Lothar’s impending festival, but I can’t help slowing my skimming to give this section a closer read.
In less than a minute, my heart is pounding as if I’ve just run up ten flights of stairs. A sickly flush creeps over my skin with each sentence I read.
Patient exhibited a magical gift that wasn’t part of his dedication sacrifice… An unearthly voice spoke in his head… Caught up in the destruction that spread out to overwhelm those practicing the most illicit sorcery…
The details collide with my memory of the ancient diary I found at the Haven, written by some long ago riven sorcerer. The one where the writer claimed the gods had torn open their soul not in punishment but to use them as a tool.
I take in all of the account before me and then hurriedly page farther into the book. There are three more cases mentioned involving riven who arrived at the temple for healing.
Each of them only expands my sense of horror.
When I’ve reached the end of the journal, I double-check the dates and then return to the shelves, yanking out volumes to check them and shoving most back into place. Finally I get my hands on a couple of other books with records of the earliest riven sorcerers, though only one each and not as detailed as the first.
I set those on my stack of reading material and clutch the original journal to my chest. This is the best evidence I have—and all I should really need.
As I stride through the library to the stairs, my pulse keeps racing. My throat has constricted.
It was so long ago—the truth of the situation must have been forgotten, lost with those who lived all those centuries before. I can’t blame any of the temple’s current staff for being unaware. But now that I’ve come across the proof…
Exposing it widely will have to wait until we’ve dealt with the scourge sorcerers, but as soon as that threat is over, all of Silana—all of the abandoned realms—ought to know how wrong they’ve been.
I head straight to Delfis’s office, though I watch for Ivy and my friends along the way. They must be off putting together plans that don’t require my academic skills.
That’s all right. Delfis should put his authority behind the first announcement. Ivy will believe me, and the other men who’ve stood with her through so much will, but for the rest of our motley resistance?
I’ve heard the uneasy whispers, seen the suspicious glances. They need to realize that Ivy’s magic isn’t any kind of crime.
It was clerics and devouts of Elox who helped the first riven sorcerers. I can’t imagine Delfis reading these accounts and seeing Ivy as a monster.
Unfortunately, I find Delfis’s office empty. He’s got his own work to see to, after all.
Stewing in my discovery, I pace through the temple’s halls—and spot Tinom sitting at a table in one of the common rooms, writing a letter.
My spirits lift. Having the magic advisor vouch for this revelation could be even better than the cleric of a single temple. And he’s already accepted Ivy as Petra’s ally and friend.
As I bustle into the room, Tinom lifts his head. Concern flashes across his face.
He gets up from his chair to meet me. “What is it?”
I hold up my free hand. “Nothing to do with the current scourge sorcerers. But incredibly important all the same. I can’t believe—the knowledge has been lost in the library clutter all this time?—”
Tinom pats my upper arm, peering at me with his deep-set eyes. He’s shorter than I am and even slimmer, but the gravity of his presence makes him feel larger all the same. “Calm yourself and tell me what’s bothering you.”
“It’s not exactly bothering…” I brandish the medical journal. “I found a book with records of patients treated here at the temple all the way back during the Great Retribution. The devout who wrote it witnessed some of the events firsthand and spoke to other witnesses. It proves that we’ve been completely mistaken about the riven.”
Tinom’s eyebrows shoot up. “How so?”
I have to fight to keep myself from babbling in my urgency. “They’re not a punishment the All-Giver inflicted on humanity for daring to attempt scourge sorcery. They were vessels chosen by the gods themselves to channel divine power! No one’s ever really explained how the gods managed to rain down all that hail and fire when standard theology states that the godlen can only encourage people and other creatures to follow their will, not act directly on the mortal world. I always assumed the All-Giver’s power allowed it under desperate circumstances.”
The magic advisor’s expression hasn’t shifted, but his stance has stiffened. “Vessels,” he repeats. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
I wave the journal. “The first riven felt their souls torn open and heard divine voices telling them their service was needed to punish those who threatened the gods. Then magic rushed through them—calling down the hail, sparking the fires, shattering the buildings… And once the Great Retribution was finished, their souls stayed open like that—like a conduit. The devouts here tried to heal them, but they had no idea what to do.”
“Perhaps it was a punishment as well then, that the gods let the effect linger.”
I frown. “That wouldn’t make sense, unless we believe the All-Giver and the godlen are purposefully cruel. Why would they punish the people who helped them the most? As far as we know, they never imposed their will on any person that strongly before… It could be that there simply was no way to reverse it.”
Tinom holds out his hand, and I offer the journal automatically. He flips through a few pages. “This is all really conjecture.”
“I don’t think you’d see it that way if you read the accounts. The way the patients describe what happened to them, the witnesses confirming that they never displayed gifts like this before—none of them had any significant madness yet despite being adults.”
Another memory flashes to the front of my mind. “Ivy’s even told us—when Kosmel talked to her last, he said something about making up for the damage the gods have done. We didn’t understand what he was referring to. He must have meant her being riven at all!”
Tinom grunts. He drifts through the room, still considering the journal, and stops by the hearth.
I only have an instant for panic to kick in before he’s tossed the aged book into the flames.
A yelp bursts from my lips. I throw myself forward, already reaching toward the fire, ready to burn my hands as badly as my face if I can retrieve the precious pages.
Tinom steps in front of me and shoves me backward. I trip over my feet and only catch myself on a side table just in time to avoid landing on my ass.
When I launch myself at him again, this time he eases aside. But we both gaze into the fire to see the book has already disintegrated into embers.
“What in the realms are you doing?” I demand, my voice rasping up my throat. “We needed that book to prove?—”
Tinom speaks with an unsettling calm. “There’s nothing to prove. All we had was potentially biased reports and speculation.”
“Biased reports? Those were eyewitnesses to the catastrophe—at the very least, they confirm that the first riven weren’t born that way. They were transformed directly by the gods for a purpose. We could have had clerics appeal to the gods for further signs to support?—”
“To what end?” Tinom asks quietly.
I stare at him for a moment before I recover my words through my rage. “How can you even ask that? So we can tell the world that people like Ivy don’t deserve to be shunned. There’s nothing shameful about how they came to be. They should be helped, not executed.”
The magic advisor lets out a soft huff. “It sounds to me as if you’re thinking with your groin rather than your brain, young man. If you weren’t entwined with one of the riven, would you even care?”
The accusation stings because it comes with a jab of guilt. I can’t say the subject would matter quite as much to me if Ivy wasn’t in my life. But all the same...
“Perhaps I wouldn’t care as urgently, but I would still want the truth to be known. They aren’t criminals. They don’t deserve what they’ve faced. If we were prepared to help them adapt to their riven souls rather than executing them on discovery, they might make this world better rather than worse.”
Tinom shrugs. “There are far fewer of them now than there ever were. The fear runs deep. Telling people a thing can’t erase their ingrained emotions. We’re dealing with enough troubles without confusing all Silana’s people over their beliefs, making them feel guilty for a past they can’t change.”
I have to pry my gritted teeth apart. “What about the people who’ll keep getting hurt? You’d consign Ivy to that fate after everything she’s done for the kingdom?”
Tinom fixes me with a look so unwavering it sends a chill coursing under my skin. “I accept your paramour because she’s amply proven that, for now, she has her magic under control, and because she could make the difference between seeing the Melchioreks retake the throne and letting Lothar win. That doesn”t mean I trust her for more than the next few days.”
As I grope for an effective retort, he spins on his heel. “If you care about peace in Silana, you won’t mention what you just told me to anyone. Not even your lover.”
He stalks out of the room, leaving his last statement ringing in my ears like a threat.