Breath of Heaven, page 9
He began to fall, the hawk diving back toward the earth. Yet as he fell, he realized there were other paths burned into the Land, other tracks, thinner than that of the armies, and other blackened marks on the world. One rested in the human city of Corsair. One trailed westward across the Arduon Ocean toward Andover. There were others, snaking across the plains, through the forests and hills, but it was the smudge of darkness that stained the breadth of grassland near the Confluence that seized Quotl’s attention as he plummeted toward the ground. Hundreds of small paths, coming from hundreds of directions, all converging on one location.
Quotl glanced downwards to see the grassland rushing toward him. He flinched back—
And gasped, heaving upwards on the stone ledge in the keeva, one hand clutching his chest over his heart, the other scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone. Smoke seared his lungs as he sucked in another breath and then he fell over the ledge onto the stone floor, the impact jarring his heart back to beating. The first thud sent lightning sheets of pain into his left arm and down into his legs. He levered himself up onto one arm, saw Kimannen staring at him through the cloud of natural smoke from across the pit. He made no move to help. Quotl turned to face the door of the keeva, began dragging himself across the floor toward it. His left arm trembled, weaker than his right, but he hauled himself forward, kicked with his legs, pulled himself to his knees using the ledge. Then he leaned forward and tumbled out through the keeva’s door.
Blessedly cool air washed over him and he gulped it in as he rolled onto his back. He heard shouts, picked Attanna’s voice out of the melee ordering the healing Sacred Waters brought, then felt someone dragging him from the keeva completely and sitting him upright. Cool water spilled over his mouth and down into his beard and he gulped at it as hungrily as he’d gulped for air a moment before. It washed the acrid burn from his throat, soothed the searing pain in his chest.
“What happened?” Attanna asked, taking the waterskin back before Quotl was finished.
Kimannen stepped from the keeva. “Ilacqua has spoken,” he said, staring down at Quotl. None of the hatred and rage Quotl had seen inside the keeva showed; none of the fear he’d heard inside touched the shaman’s voice.
Somehow the lack of emotion was more frightening than the anger.
Attanna’s attention returned to Quotl. “What did he say?”
“He showed me the Wraith armies,” Quotl muttered hoarsely, then snatched at the waterskin and drank so fast he spluttered and coughed.
Wiping his mouth, he croaked, “They’re already inside the warrens. They’re headed for the Sacred Waters and the Summer Tree.”
5
Tuvaellis tucked her shawl in closer about her face and glared at the elderly couple who had entered the sanctuary of Holy Diermani’s main cathedral in the heart of Trent. Light lanced down through the tall stained glass windows along both sides of the hall and through the large rosette set into the peak above the altar. Niches along the walls held statues of saints and martyrs, or small reliquaries, while between the windows and the soaring stone supports painted murals depicted scenes from the Codex, the most prominent feature being the glowing presence of Diermani’s Hand reaching from the heavens, wreathed in clouds or vines, or emerging from the depths of a lake.
The murals had originally intrigued Tuvaellis, even more so after Patris Sandreo had begun speaking to her and explaining the stories behind the images, but today they were merely an additional source of irritation. She hadn’t intended to speak to anyone when she’d come that day a month before, had merely meant to sit in the back of the cathedral and observe. She’d spent the last month attempting to integrate herself into the Bontari Family, the ruling Family here in Trent, but she’d discovered that getting close to the Dom was nearly impossible. Becoming a member of a guild and proving her standing and usefulness to the Family would get her in, certainly, but it wouldn’t provide her access to the upper echelons, the literal family members who would be able to aid her. True family members rarely stepped outside of their own social circles within the court. Walter had warned her that her task would not be easy, but she hadn’t expected the aristocracy here to be so…interbred.
She’d realized she would have to take a different approach: attempt to infiltrate the Church of Holy Diermani directly. But she’d known nothing of the church, and Walter had told her little before she’d left. So she’d come to the cathedral to see what she could find out—about the location of the Rose, about the hierarchy of the priesthood, and in particular, how she could deliver the stone Walter had entrusted her with into the Rose’s heart. Time was running short. She knew Walter’s plans were moving forward in New Andover. If she was going to help bring those plans to fruition, she needed to plant the stone inside the Rose by the end of winter. After that it would be too late.
So she’d come to the cathedral, had seated herself in the last pew, had stared at the murals and the vaulted stone ceilings and let the scent of ancient wood, dust, and tallow envelop her. She’d taken in the trappings of the church on the altar and throughout the large hall, the symbolism and the imagery, and had snorted in derision.
That was when Sandreo had spoken to her for the first time. She hadn’t known he’d entered the sanctuary behind her, hadn’t realized he’d been watching her for some time. The shock had brought her to her feet, automatically hunching to hide her height, one hand checking the shawl’s placement, the other falling toward the sword concealed beneath the multi-layered robes of her disguise.
“Ah, good woman, you have nothing to fear here,” he’d said with a smile.
And that was how it had started. She couldn’t remember what he’d begun to say that startled her in the first place, but she remembered those words. And nearly everything he had said since.
She’d found out it was almost as difficult to get close to the hierarchy of the church as it was to the members of the Court, and that the priests kept the secrets of the church in an iron-clenched fist.
Her irritation spiked higher at the thought as the couple she’d scowled at earlier found their way down the nave, knelt and genuflected, then seated themselves a few rows away from the representation of the tilted cross Diermani had sacrificed himself upon ages past. A few others were scattered around the pews in various states of prayer or contemplation. One man was asleep, his snores faint.
She heard Sandreos approaching this time, the tread of his sandals barely audible. She sometimes thought he made purposefully more noise when approaching her, after that first incident. She didn’t turn.
“Jarell,” he said, his tone mildly surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
Tuvaellis turned her head as Sandreo halted at the end of her pew, careful to keep her face in shadow. She had tried numerous methods to conceal the Well’s oily taint beneath her skin, had even altered her age so that she was a child, from a time before she had drunk from the Well, but the taint remained even then.
“I hadn’t planned on coming,” she said curtly. She hadn’t. But when she’d woken that morning and realized that it was nearing the end of autumn, a restlessness had seized her. Walter had given her the responsibility of delivering the stone, now secreted in a smaller, more portable wooden case, but she had met nothing but failure since reaching Andover. She needed to know the whereabouts of the Rose, its exact location in the Borangi Desert, and Sandreo hadn’t revealed anything during any of their talks. She was frustrated, impatience clawing at her skin. She needed to move.
“I see. Is it your illness? Is the ache worsening?”
Tuvaellis bowed her head. When he had questioned why she hid her face, she had told him she was disfigured by an illness, that she would not show her face to anyone. “A little, patris. But nothing I cannot bear.”
She heard a rustle of cloth, the wood of the pew behind her creaking as Sandreo settled down. Not so close as to intrude on her personal space—she’d made it clear she did not like anyone touching her—but certainly closer than he’d ever come before.
“Suffering is part of life, of course. I believe, from what you have told me, that you have suffered greatly. You should not let that color your faith in Diermani and the church.”
Tuvaellis barked out a short laugh. “My faith? I have no faith.”
“That is what you claimed when I first met you. Yet here you are. If you have no faith, then why did you come? Why do you continue to return?”
“Because I need something.”
“What is it that you think you need?”
The location of the Rose. Her frustration boiled up inside her chest and threatened to burst forth. But she knew being so blunt would never work with Sandreos. Nothing appeared to crack his shroud of calm. She had thought it due to his age—he was ancient by human standards—but over time she’d realized that it came from something deeper.
She stood and turned on Sandreo. “How dare you? You expect me to believe in Diermani, in his benevolence, when you have shown me none of your own?”
Sandreo’s eyes rose. “I have been nothing but benevolent. I have tried to bring you closer to Diermani, tried to get you to see how he can help you find peace.”
“I don’t want peace!” He flinched at her sudden vehemence. “I want healed. I want to walk through the plazas of Trent without wearing a shawl. I want to walk the docks with the sun warming my face, not cowering in the shadows. I want to discard these clothes and stand tall.”
Sandreos said nothing when she finished, only her panting breath interrupting the solitude of their corner of the nave. Tuvaellis was shocked at the intensity of her own words. For a brief moment she wondered if there wasn’t a kernel of truth to them, to give them such force, even though her “illness” was fiction, a ruse so that she could remain hidden behind the shawl. The thought sent her anger even higher and she unconsciously stood up straighter.
“Well?” she demanded. “What does your god have to say about that?”
Sandreos stood slowly. “He would pity you, that you cannot stand tall as you are and that you could not enjoy the sunlight without fearing what other people think of you.”
This only enraged Tuvaellis further. This wasn’t working. She’d been playing Sandreos for weeks and had learned nothing. Nothing of importance.
“Everywhere I go, the people speak of Diermani, praising him, cursing him, thanking him for his mercy, his protection. Everywhere they speak of the miracles he performed, of the healing powers he has given to the church in the form of the Rose. You know of this Rose. I know it, I can see it in the way your face closes when I mention it during our talks. And yet you do not see fit to tell me of it, of its whereabouts, even though you know it would heal me!”
Sandreos’ eyes hardened and for the first time since Tuvaellis had known him, he looked angry. It accentuated the wrinkles in his face, yet made him seem more vital at the same time, more powerful. “The Rose is a gift from Diermani, yes, but its power is too great to be trifled with. The Feud was fought over that power, and that Feud nearly tore the Court and the Families apart. It would have, if it had not been decided that the power was too great for any one Family—or even a group—to wield. It was given to the church in order to protect the people. We—the patri, arruli, and caddoni—are its guardians. It is not something we speak of often, and it is not something that is given out lightly. I suggest that if you seek healing, you search within yourself first. Your anger and bitterness is what keeps you from finding peace. Relinquish that, and the healing will flow from within you.”
He began to turn away. Tuvaellis lunged forward, snagged his arm, and hauled him around to face her. “Tell me the location of the Rose.”
He recoiled from her and it took her a moment to realize why. She’d forgotten about her shawl. It had slipped, part of her face now lit by the patterned light of the rosette. Sandreos had seen the oily black taint of the Well. She saw his shock shift to horror…and then pity.
“You are one of the Wraiths,” he said. “Is that what you seek to heal?”
Tuvaellis’ fingers tightened on the patris’ arm and he gasped. Furious at how he had so completely misunderstood her ruse, and at her own impatience and careless mistake, she drew her sword from beneath the folds of her clothes. “No.” She calmly slashed his throat. “I have no wish to heal the gifts of the sarenavriell.”
He staggered backwards as she released him. Blood sprayed across the pews as he struck one and spun, clutching at the bench for support. More splattered across the painted murals between the glass windows, dripped from the face of the statue of a martyr tucked into the adjacent niche. Sandreos sank to his knees and Tuvaellis felt power build, realized that it came from the priest. She instantly raised her defenses, but Sandreos had called forth his energy too late. He sagged to the floor, already dead, and the energy ebbed. Tuvaellis shuddered. Sandreos had been more dangerous than she’d suspected, and the thought forced her to reevaluate the entire church—the priests, the hierarchy, and Diermani himself. She had not known the patri wielded real power. She would not make that mistake again.
Someone screamed, the sound penetrating the stillness that had enveloped her. She spun with a curse—she had forgotten the others within the nave—reaching to slow time as she did so. Drawing the shawl back over her face, she counted nearly ten witnesses. A smile tugged at her face as she thought of slaughtering them all, here, in their holiest of places, and she streaked toward them.
But as she moved, she felt a presence press down upon her, slowing her, even though she had nearly stopped time. She fought it, her fluid run toward the center aisle faltering as she reached the middle of the church. The elderly couple stood, clutching each other. Another woman, the one who’d screamed, had a hand over her mouth, her arm pointing toward where Tuvaellis had been a moment before. Two children—a boy and a girl—partially hid behind her. A group of three men had begun to turn from where they knelt at the base of the railing and the dais of the altar.
But it was the priest who had emerged from somewhere behind the altar who caught Tuvaellis’ attention. He wasn’t watching the corner of the nave, where Sandreos’ blood would be forming a pool beneath the pews. No, he was watching her.
She staggered against what held her back, struggling to push forward. But it held her, as if a hand had been raised to shield those who had seen her.
She stopped trying to push forward. The pressure ceased, but she could still feel the hand—the Hand of Diermani, she realized—hovering before her. She glared at the priest, but realized that he was caught in time like the others. She didn’t understand how he knew where she was, or how he had raised the Hand against her—he must have called it forth before she slowed time—but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t reach the others in the nave.
Snarling, she spun and fled the church, keeping time slowed as she burst out onto the wide steps leading down to the plaza beyond. She didn’t let time return to normal until she’d wound her way through the sunlit streets of Trent to her room at The Painted Vine.
She began to pack, removing a satchel and tossing it onto the bed, barely aware of the sudden clanging of bells in the city, starting with one set, then spreading to the others. She pulled the smaller wooden box that contained the stone from its place within the broken trunk that had brought it across the Arduon Ocean and placed it into the satchel, along with a few of the clothes she’d picked up to help her blend into Trent. Then someone knocked at her outer door.
She stilled, then drew her blade, halted time, and stalked to the door, standing to one side, before allowing time to resume. “Yes?”
“Mistress, there has been a murder.”
Tuvaellis could hear Irina’s suspicion through the door, knew that she was disappointed Tuvaellis was in her rooms. The two of them had been at odds since Tuvaellis’ arrival, the keeper of The Painted Vine threatening to throw Tuvaellis out at every opportunity. But she didn’t dare, not with Tuvaellis’ supposed connections to the Bontari Family and the repercussions of offending them. Irina couldn’t afford that. She had fled the Scarrelli Family moments before her capture and resided in Trent at the Bontari Family’s sufferance and beneath their protection, although Tuvaellis had not discovered what Irina supposedly knew that would warrant keeping her alive.
“A murder? Is that why the bells are ringing? They woke me up.”
“Yes. Someone has killed one of the patri at the cathedral!” Her suspicions allayed, Irina’s voice vibrated with the horror and shock of the crime. Tuvaellis could picture her genuflecting. “They say it was an old woman, hunched forward with a cowl pulled over her face. If anyone sees such a figure, we are to report it to the Armory immediately.”
“I see.” And Tuvaellis did see. Irina would have recognized her description, which was why she was so disappointed to find Tuvaellis in her rooms. No one could have run the distance from the cathedral to The Painted Vine in the time it had taken the word to be spread by the Armory and the bells. They probably assumed she was still hiding somewhere close to the cathedral.
But the description meant she would have to discard her disguise, at least until she was outside the city. And it was time to leave Trent. She didn’t know where she would go from here, perhaps down the coast to Carrente. It would keep her close to the Borangi Desert, more so than going north to Avezzano.
“If you were thinking of heading into town,” Irina said, “I’d wait. They’re going to be eyeing everyone for the next few days, unless they catch her. You won’t be safe.”
Tuvaellis was mildly surprised. Perhaps Irina’s constant scowl and brusque attitude was merely a façade. “Very well.”
