He gritted his teeth through the pain, trying to figure out what was happening. If this magic was the girl’s alone, she was stronger than an entire army of battlemages. But how was that possible?
And the undead… she named them her own.
She walked over to him, two more stones floating over her head. As soon as Seán saw the girl’s eyes—cold and numb to the death she had wrought—he knew that she meant to kill him.
“Wait!” he wheezed, desperately thinking of a plan. “You said you seek more mages. I… I know where you can find them.”
The girl paused and smiled. If something so wicked could even be called a smile.
He pretended to be trying to find of the words to say, but Seán’s mind was elsewhere, frantically thinking through the pain that seared his body.
Few know of the weapon. If I die here, it could be lost. He tried to reach out into the safehouse for it, but the pain hampered his grasp on his power. Then, another idea came to him. He turned his attention to the stone beneath him: cobblestones still. These were basalt, formed from the fiery blood of the earth cooling above ground. With the little power he could muster, Seán pressed his soul into the stones, making cracks form along them.
“Tell me,” said the girl. She struck one of the stones down at Seán, cracking it against his shoulder.
The Earthmaster howled in pain, but he continued to work those cracks through the stones beneath him. He kept his eyes fixated on hers and mouthed some words without meaning, stalling for time.
“Speak!” she cried. “Speak now, or I’ll kill you slowly.”
As Seán formed the last crack in the stone, completing his work, he smiled. “The mages of the Academy, my dear. They’ll hunt you down, and they’ll crush you like a worm.”
The girl laughed, lifting both stones up again. She threw them down to deliver the killing blow.
Seán’s last thoughts were with the cracks he had left in the road. It was the best he could do, and he hoped it was enough. The faint symbol etched over the storehouse was far too faded to be found by anyone who wasn’t looking for it, after all. His last thoughts were a prayer to Seletoth, that the marking he had left as cracks in the road—two concentric circles and a V underneath—would be enough.
Chapter 1:
In the Eyes of Seletoth
I write this against the advice of my Church, for I do not believe truths as important as these should be forgotten. It is my wish that once completed, this record is locked away so none may ever look upon its pages. But I do not wish for it to be lost. The truths of our existence, no matter how terrible, should never be lost.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
Across the Arch-Canon’s study, a portrait of Seletoth hung on the wall. The oil-painted deity held a staff in one hand, the other raised overhead in a fist. Like most artists’ depictions of the Lord, here He took the form of a bearded patriarch with a stance as strong as his gaze. Seletoth stood over the ruined Simian tower that He had named Sin, in a city that He would later name Penance.
If the Godslayer returns, thought Farris, there’ll be nothing left to name. He folded and unfolded his legs as he sat upon the cushioned recliner. Arch-Canon Cathbad was late.
The Simian glanced back up at the portrait, meeting Lord Seletoth’s eyes. Framed in gold, the great portrait would have formed the centrepiece of the back wall if it hadn’t been for the extravagant door adjacent to it. With silver inlays and cushioned, oaken wood studded with precious stones, the door seemed to encompass all the arrogant wealth of the Church. Arrogance further emphasised when the door swung open.
Arch-Canon Cathbad strode into the study, the tails of his red-silk robe dangling across the immaculate floor. A golden stole lay upon his shoulders, with the three rings of the Trinity displayed at both ends. The man himself wasn’t quite as exquisite as his vestments, with pale lips like a crooked gash across his jaundiced face. Black circles surrounded his eyes, but they held a look as austere as that depicted on the portrait behind him.
Without a saying a word, Cathbad stood before Farris and raised a hand towards him, fingers curled into a half-fist. On one finger was a ring: a thick golden band with a large white stone set in its crown. Like the Arch-Canon’s stole, the stone bore an engraving of the three interlocking circles of the Trinity.
Farris stared at the ring, unsure what was expected of him. He grew even more confused when the Arch-Canon slowly moved it towards Farris’s face.
“It’s, um, very nice,” said Farris, moving the pontiff’s hand away.
Arch-Canon Cathbad scowled, then took a seat, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
I knew this was a terrible idea, thought Farris. They should have sent someone else in my place. Anyone else.
“Farris Silvertongue,” said Cathbad, emphasising each syllable. For a man so frail, his voice had a certain strength that surprised the Simian. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“And I, you,” said Farris, supressing a smile. He had played this game before, back in the courts of Cruachan.
The Arch-Canon shifted his seat. “You were imprisoned here in the Basilica less than a moon ago, but you escaped. Now you’ve been sent here to speak to me, as if an equal. Why shouldn’t I have my men throw you back into a cell?”
“Firstly,” began Farris, leaning forward. “You lost half of your Churchguard the night the undead horde came. Secondly, those that survived did so because I convinced them to abandon their posts. If anything, they owe their lives to me.”
Farris paused, giving Cathbad the chance to dwell on what he had said. Once a faint shade of red appeared upon those pale cheeks, Farris spoke again.
“And finally, I am here on behalf of Argyll the Silverback, representing the Triad. And their forces are presently stronger than your own.”
“The Triad is no longer,” said Cathbad, raising a dismissive hand. “Borris is dead, and both Argyll and Cathal Carríga hang onto life by less than a thread.”
“Yet they still live,” said Farris. “As the Tower still stands.”
This led to a lull, which Farris dared not break. He had no experience negotiating, for his strength lay in deceit over diplomacy. This much he had argued back in the House of the Triad, before Nicole and the others flew south. It was General-Commander Plackart who had first suggested Farris talk to the Arch-Canon, but it was Nicole who had convinced him.
Our future is uncertain, she had said, and in the coming days we’ll all have to play roles we are not comfortable with. Sure, with the Triad in tatters, only the owners of Penance’s lands and armies had any kind of power. But that was a frail, transient power pulled by a dozen different hands in a dozen different directions. And the seams were already starting to tear.
“So, you represent the dying Triad,” said Cathbad. “And you feel the need to meet me face-to-face despite your contempt for the Church.” He folded his arms. “Why?”
Farris chose his words carefully.
“You are well aware we are in a time of crisis, my Lord.” He wasn’t entirely sure whether or not this was the correct title. “The undead have been defeated, but the one who led them now possesses power never witnessed before. If we are to stand a chance against her, we’ll need the combined strength of the Church and the Triad. We wish to use the Skyfleet to its fullest potential. And only the Church can help us with that.”
