“I remember the events well,” said Halavend, “though I didn’t meet the king until many years later. In my twentieth year, I had followed the Urge to join the Islehood and dedicate myself fully to the Homeland. It was a tumultuous time, with King Barrid opposing the Voyages, and ultimately, Dronodan and Talumon breaking away from the kingdom and waging war.
“Prime Isless Hin, the one before Chauster, was a significant motivator in the secession. After all, it was in the best interest of Wayfarism to remove Barrid from rule. She selected young Dietrik Pethredote, a religious zealot with a bloodline that was considered marginally noble in Espar. Pethredote made an agreement with the Prime Isless and the independent islands to become a crusader monarch.”
“Crusader monarch?” Lyndel asked.
Halavend scratched his head. How could he explain this? “It was a political move instigated by the Prime Isless. Pethredote was required to devise a comprehensive plan for the way he would rule the Greater Chain. When his terms were accepted by Dronodan and Talumon, he was given the Visitant Grit and sent to Beripent. If he succeeded in dethroning King Barrid, Pethredote would rule without marriage or an heir.”
Halavend opened the book and read the passage he had marked for Lyndel. “‘As to the worthiness of His Highness King Pethredote, there can be no question. Certainly, the Homeland Urged him into such a bold confrontation. With his passion for Wayfarism and his noble heritage, King Pethredote was uniquely suited to deliver the Greater Chain from a ruler whose personal ambition and greed had led to suffering and oppression.
“‘Evidence of his worthiness is manifest in the circumstances surrounding the Visitation. So confident was young Pethredote that he challenged King Barrid, calling him out of the throne room and shattering the pot of Visitant Grit upon the palace grounds.
“‘King Barrid was burned away as chaff, his eyes beholding the mystical Paladin in his hazy cloud of Visitant Grit. The tyrant’s army, too, was seized in shock at the fiery arrival. Three hundred men and a hundred horses perished in the blink of an eye. But young Pethredote had prepared his followers and they fell to the ground with eyes sealed against the holy being, hands clasping their ears, should he speak.
“‘And all the while, Pethredote felt the warmth of the Paladin’s flame as the magnificent figure stood over him, shielding the worthy young man on the brink of ascending to the throne of a divided kingdom.’”
“Pethredote felt his warmth,” said Lyndel. “But the Paladin did not touch him?”
“Of course not.” Halavend closed the book. There was much mystery surrounding the nature of the Paladin Visitants, but one thing was an indisputable fact. Any interaction with the fiery figures would result in sudden incineration. One could not touch a Paladin Visitant, hear its voice, or even look upon it.
The only reason historians even knew the general form of the beings was thanks to Vethdrow. Her successful detonation in 1038 had been mixed with Illusion Grit. At great personal risk, Vethdrow and several scholars returned to the site of the detonation several days after the Visitant cloud had burned out. A second blast of Illusion Grit had shown them the image of what had transpired. And miraculously, all who observed the afterimage of the Paladin Visitant survived to record their findings.
“Pethredote’s detonation seems no different from other examples you have read to me,” said Lyndel. “Immortal warriors who caused death.”
“I agree,” said Halavend. “Still, we have to assume that the Paladin Visitants can do more than slay enemies with their presence. The scripture says they can protect mankind from its own annihilation. That is critical for our overall plan.”
Lyndel nodded. They rarely spoke of the true reason they met together. What was left to be said on the matter? They had been down that road dozens of times. Isless Malla had died for it, Homeland keep her. The pieces were all in motion now. Talking about it would only cause Halavend to second-guess himself and end up paralyzed with fear and regret.
It was better to spend his efforts discovering the right person to detonate the Visitant Grit once Ardor acquired it.
“We will find the answers,” said Lyndel. She must have seen his furrowed brow. “As the Trothians say, a man finding seashells looks down.”
Halavend smiled. He enjoyed learning nuggets of Trothian wisdom, even if he didn’t always understand them.
“If you stop searching,” said Lyndel, “we will certainly never find anything.”
Lately, Lyndel’s words seemed to be the only glimmer of light in a world of discouraging darkness. “Thank you, Lyndel. I wondered what your thoughts are regarding …”
Isle Halavend stood suddenly, his ears picking up sounds of commotion outside the cove. Lyndel must have heard it also, and she moved in two long-legged strides to her concealed position behind the wooden door.
Halavend’s heart was racing. He’d have to stall whoever was coming. Hold them at the dock to give Lyndel time to slip through the trapdoor into the old aqueduct.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, wrinkled hand shaking as he cracked open the door and peered out.
The Mooring was indeed filled with commotion, but the voices were not approaching Cove 23.
There was a raft in the waterway, but an Isle had fallen overboard. He was still floundering as he got his feet under him, his sea-green robes soaked, and the water lapping at his chest. It was a very rare occurrence for someone in the Mooring to fall into the water, let alone a Holy Isle!
There was an Isless on the raft, driving her long pole to the bottom of the canal in an effort to anchor them. There were also two officers of the Regulation, Rollers holstered beneath long wool coats.
Halavend opened the door farther, to spy yet another figure onboard the raft. A young man in ragged clothing, lying on his side. His wrists and ankles were bound, and he lay very still, the two Regulators watching him cautiously.
“Are you all right?” the Isless called to the man in the water.
“Continue along,” replied the Isle, wading across the waterway to the cove on the other side. “I will wait on the dock.”
The bound figure bucked violently, wobbling the raft as the Isless withdrew her pole.
“Steady!” shouted one of the Regulators.
“Hold him!”
But the ragged man rose to his knees, slamming his forehead into the chest of the nearest Regulator. The man toppled overboard, striking the water with a significant splash, his helmeted head vanishing beneath the surface as he struggled to right himself.
The ruffian was on his knees now, straining against his bonds. He turned his face toward Cove 23, mouth agape and silent. Isle Halavend gripped the open door, staring across the waterway at those eyes.
Red. Crimson eyes like pools of blood. Blind. Mute. Violent. Moonsick. This lost soul had already reached the third stage.
Halavend should have ducked back into his cove and shut the door. It had been years since he’d seen Moonsickness. And what he knew about it now painted the picture before him in a completely different hue.
The Moonsick man tried to rise, but the second Regulator brought a wooden club down with a crack across the back of his head. The blow barely seemed to affect him, and the Regulator struck again. And again. Halavend saw a spatter of blood pepper the raft. By the Homeland! That beating would have killed an ordinary man.
The Regulator struck twice more with the club, the final swing connecting with the young man’s face. The bound figure finally slumped onto the raft, still writhing. The Regulator on board dropped onto him, holding both ends of the club and pinning the shaft across the lad’s throat.
“Hoy!” called the Isless poling the raft. Halavend stood numbly in the doorway, unaware that the woman was calling to him until she shouted a second time. “Lend us your dock!”
The Regulator that had fallen overboard was wading toward Cove 23! Halavend stepped onto the small dock, swinging the door shut behind him. Lyndel was probably into the tunnel by now. The Regulator
wasn’t likely to enter Halavend’s cove, but commotion of this sort necessitated an abrupt end to their study session.
Halavend was still staring at the raft, the Moonsick man wriggling, pinned down on the wet wood as the Isless poled them across the waterway toward Halavend. He felt sick himself. That face was burned in his mind. Bloodred eyes, slack jaw, trembling with a violent rage.
Isless Malla.
Was that how she had looked? Oh, Homeland keep her, poor girl. Halavend felt the guilt pouring around him, filling his insides. Was her sacrifice on Pekal worth such a horrid, unholy fate?
“Mind if I pull myself up?” asked the Regulator who had waded over to his dock. “Afraid I’ll topple the raft if I try to climb on board.”
There was a short ladder built onto the opposite end of the dock, lowering into the water for such unlikely instances. The man ignored it, hoisting himself, dripping, onto the damp planks beside Isle Halavend.
“What …” Halavend started, his lips dry. “What happened?” His eyes were still fixed on the raft as it drew nearer.
“Sad set of circumstances,” answered the Regulator. He was shivering from the chill of the late autumn water, soaked to the bone in his wool coat. “Part of a Harvesting crew. He was separated in a storm and his mates had to leave Pekal before the Moon Passing.”
“This lost soul endured the night with no Holy Torch to ward off the sickness,” explained the Isless, drawing the raft alongside the dock. “He arrived on the beach five days into the new cycle, and Pekal’s harbor Regulation rushed him to Beripent.”
Halavend could see the man clearly now, though he was grateful that the Regulator’s coat draped over that horrid face. There was more blood on the raft than Halavend could stomach. And was that a shred of gory scalp clinging to the Regulator’s sleeve? Surely such a beating would have damaged the young lad’s brain.
Never mind that. The sick man was as good as dead already. And many healers over the years had validated the theory that those infected with Moonsickness felt no physical pain.
The healers had performed tests, sticking a Moonsick patient in the leg with a needle. The poor soul wouldn’t even react. In some cases, a needle had not been strong enough to penetrate. Supposedly, Moonsickness created a toughening of the skin, a durability of the bones, and a hardening of the internal organs. Somehow, all this happened without killing the poor sap. In fact, the symptoms largely helped prevent their deaths, with bones like iron and skin that was nearly tough enough to stop a Roller ball.
Unsettling.
At least Isless Malla hadn’t felt the suffering. Homeland be praised for that small relief.
“Why the Mooring?” Halavend didn’t realize he had his back pressed to the door, as though Moonsickness were some sort of contagious malady that could be contracted in close proximity. “Why did you bring him here?”
Very few infected with Moonsickness ever made it out of Pekal’s mountainous slopes. Those who did were usually taken to a remote Regulation Stockade on Strind, where the sick patients could live out their miserable days in isolation.
“We were instructed to bring this man to the Prime Isle,” said the Regulator, stepping from the dock to the raft.
“In this state?” Halavend cried, pointing at the squirming man. He had done a considerable amount of study on Moonsickness. Those afflicted became very dangerous, especially in the third stage.
“This man is a danger!” Halavend insisted. “He mustn’t …”
The Isless pushed off the dock, slipping out into the Mooring waterway once again. “Prime Isle Chauster asked to see him,” she said. “This man is his nephew.”
Halavend slumped against the cove door. That poor wretched creature was someone’s nephew. Someone’s son. Moonsickness was ignorant of love. It could strike the Settled criminal and Holy Isless alike. And, though no one would believe him, Halavend knew it had nothing to do with Pekal, or the absence of a Holy Torch. He knew the truth. The new doctrine.
Moonsickness was coming.
Halavend stared at the raft as it drifted down the waterway, its deranged passenger still thrashing under the weight of the bloodstained Regulator.
This was the future of every soul on the islands.
My greatest fear is what will happen to my eyes.
CHAPTER
9
Cats catch killer kittens cussing quickly. Cats catch killer kittens cussing quickly. Catch cats kitten killers quickly kissing …” Quarrah trailed off as the words stopped making sense.
“Oh, poo!” Cinza leapt from her chair. “Diction, Quarrah! Diction! How can the king become obsessed with your lovely voice if he can’t understand what you’re singing?”
Quarrah drew a deep, calming breath through her nose. “First of all, I won’t be singing about cats and killer kittens,” she said. “And second, I won’t actually be singing at all!”
She might have tried to control the volume of her voice if Ard had been studying at his usual table in the corner, but he and Elbrig were out on some assignment, leaving Quarrah and Cinza alone in the upper room of the bakery.
Cinza took two big steps toward her, pressing her nose inches from Quarrah’s face. “That is precisely why diction is so important! The only thing the audience will be seeing is your mouth wagging onstage. What will they think if your words don’t line up with what they’re hearing? This isn’t the freak fair. It’s the king’s blazing orchestra!”
“Just give me a minute.” Quarrah pulled her face away from Cinza’s, adjusting her large-rimmed spectacles. She’d been at this for three cycles now. Some ninety days of work and most of the time she felt as if it were her first lesson, as though the day—no, the week—before had taught her nothing.
On her evenings off, Quarrah wandered the streets of Beripent, remembering how it felt to blend into the shadows, to go unnoticed. And the next morning she was back at the Bakery on Humont Street, Cinza Ortemion right in her face, teaching her how to stand out in a crowd. Drilling her on diction, lyrics, pitch, pose, blah, blah, blah …
Quarrah sat down on a chair beside Ard’s blackboard. Why did she stick around to endure such musical torture? Quarrah had no doubt she could vanish into the heart of the city, and neither Ard nor Cinza would ever find her. But if she ran, Quarrah would never feel the thrill of swiping the king’s regalia.
It wasn’t that Quarrah had anything against King Pethredote. On the contrary, the man had done amazing things for the Greater Chain. But he represented a new level of untouchability that tempted Quarrah’s inner thief. She knew the job was too big to tackle alone, but with a team of experts they just might succeed.
And then there was the matter of two hundred thousand Ashings. Even if Ard’s elaborate ruse took a year, that was more money than she was likely to make in ten working thefts alone.
The challenge of the theft and the promise of Ashings had enticed her to the ruse in the first place. But those weren’t the only things that kept her from leaving.
Whenever she felt like progress would never be made, Ard would come into the room and make some comment about her improvement.
Quarrah didn’t believe half the things Ardor Benn said. He was a ruse artist, paid to manipulate people’s emotions. But sometimes, on the hardest of days, Quarrah didn’t care if he was manipulating her. The compliments felt good.
Ard made Quarrah feel like she belonged. And that was a feeling she hadn’t experienced since before her mother left. This sense of inclusion was fulfilling, satisfying an emotional deficit that had grown deeper than Quarrah realized.
So she didn’t run. Quarrah stayed. And she sang and sang. And sang.
“From the top!” Cinza motioned for her to rise. Quarrah did so reluctantly, brushing a strand of bright red hair from her eyes. Blazing wig. The huge thing was like an octopus consuming her skull.
“Approach your space,” coached Cinza.
Quarrah eyed a particular spot on the floor and strode purposefully toward it. When she reache
d the spot, she stopped abruptly so her wide-hemmed dress would ripple and swirl.
“Meh,” Cinza said. “Next time, approach the space without looking at it, remember?”
“How can I see where I’m going if I don’t look?” Quarrah asked. Years of sneaking around manors in the dark had made her hyperaware of her footing. Walk without looking? No wonder the royal folk got robbed!
Cinza ignored the question, snapping her fingers instead. “Cue the music. Pose, pose!”
Quarrah struck the singing pose Cinza had taught her. Feet together, shoulders back, hands clasped at the navel, chin slightly lifted to elongate her neck. For what it was worth, Cinza claimed the royal men would really take a liking to her neck. Despite the comment being rather unsettling, Quarrah took it as a compliment—the closest she’d get from Cinza.
Cinza was humming the opening instrumental measures. She raised one hand to cue Quarrah, speaking in rhythm. “And … go.”
“Wait.” Quarrah momentarily broke the pose. “Which one am I singing?”
Cinza rolled her eyes. “The cantata.”
“Can’t I do the aria?” Quarrah countered. “I know it so much better.”
“That’s precisely why you needn’t sing it,” snapped Cinza. “The purpose of practice is not to sound good. You’re ready with the aria—a thing I thought I’d never say. It’s the cantata that concerns me.”
“It’s just …” Quarrah sighed. If all went according to plan, she would be performing the aria in just a week. Shouldn’t she focus on that? Quarrah wouldn’t perform the cantata for cycles. And that was only if Ard impressed the king enough for the piece to be selected for the Grotenisk Festival.
“Cue the music!” Cinza shouted again, humming. Quarrah snapped into her pose. She drew a deep breath, supporting from the diaphragm, and began singing from memory at the top of the cantata.
“‘Grotenisk! Grotenisk! Devourer of life. Terror of kingdoms. Bringer of strife. In peace we brought thee from that dangerous peak. In compensation for our gesture thou didst prey upon the weak. Grotenisk! Grotenisk!’”