Skyclad (Fate's Anvil Book 1) Read online

  Traveling a route long since committed to memory, Zizzy’s footsteps soon led her out from the shadow of the stone walls lining either side of the street. Hightown was Stormbreak’s true heart of commerce and law, nestled out of the reach of most of the ocean’s often inclement weather. Guild halls, various banks and offices, and many exclusive shops and other establishments sprawled out from the grounds of Storm Break. It was a low-slung, broad stone building, a seven-sided monstrosity boasting a massive double spire at each of the seven corners. The spires rose up like giant, slender tuning forks over a thousand paces high to tower over even the central peak of the island’s mountainous interior.

  As Zizzy made her way down the main boulevard, one of the western facing tower-forks began to glow at the base, just above where the spire split in two. Glowing energy, wider than Zizzy was tall, rose up the pair of tines with a golden spark bridging the gap between. It crawled upward like a god giving a Jacob’s Ladder demonstration. When the massive spark reached the tip of the fork, the sky flashed for a brief instant as the arc leapt westward over the ocean. There should have been thunder, but Zizzy knew the enchantments around the Storm Breaker Central Array kept the locals in the region from being deafened by its discharge.

  Before she travelled all the way to the governmental section of the building that sat just in front of Storm Break, Zizzy turned once again to head up a slightly smaller cul-de-sac known as Temple Gardens. Stormbreak’s Temple was a modest affair, as were most. Called the Temple of Guidance by some, and the Temple of Prophecy by others, Zizzy preferred the older name for it: the Temple of Reflection.

  Dedicated to no specific deity, it was instead part of the loosely associated temples and groups that bent spiritual knee to the undeniable authority of the [Oracle]. People were free to pray at the various shrines to this or that god within the Temple, as the Custodian of Stories played no favorites. A woman who could topple empires with a word in the right ear, or crown a beggar king with a simple message, many feared the [Oracle], but all respected her Mantle, regardless of their own personal faiths.

  Sabenday was not so much a holy day, but rather the traditional weekly event when the Temple gave out a larger charity meal than the daily bread, along with allowing petitioners to request personal divinations from the various prophetic or priest-type classes that served the [Oracle]. A sermon was typically given in the morning, and this was the reason Zizzy had made her way so far out of her usual patrol district.

  At the arched front entrance to the outer Temple Gardens, the city’s grey paving cobblestones gave way to smooth, pale marble tiles. Setting foot on the first one, Zizzy counted exactly thirty-three stones as she walked, stopping six squares from the temple steps. She stood there for a few moments as others passed to her left and right, coming and going from the Temple itself. Squaring her shoulders, she slowly held up her right hand and reached forward over the line between her stone and the next.

  As her hand crossed the invisible threshold, she was wracked with intense pain. It was a sensation like she’d dipped it into impossibly cold ice water at first, and deepened into a frigid burn the longer she persisted. The skin of her hand began to degrade after a few short moments, drying and cracking with an even more intense hurt. With a resigned, unsurprised sigh, she withdrew her hand, the damage beginning to heal almost as fast as it had been inflicted.

  Zizzy turned to her left and paced around to the side of the temple, her expression somewhere between forlorn and hopeful. Less than a third of the way around the temple proper was a stone bench under a canvas awning, sitting close enough to the threshold that one could just hear the low droning of one or another of the priests getting long-winded with his sermon. The tall, narrow windows were too high to allow sight into the main atrium, but the acoustics let enough of the sound carry outside that she could sit on the bench and meditate while the susurrating murmur calmed her soul.

  “I don’t even need my divination gifts to know when you get here, Zizzy,” a gruff but friendly voice said off to her left. “You’re like clockwork; every week, same exact time, with almost no deviation unless you have Warden’s business to attend to.”

  A portly, kind-faced older man leaning on a cane shuffled into view, dropping to the bench beside her with a groan that gave proof to his age and status. Eventually Vitality simply ceased to be as effective, providing less and less regeneration and health recovery later in life. “I swear,” gently chided the man, “I have seen clocks that don’t keep time as well as you do, Ziz.”

  “It’s not like a Diviner or a Prophet needs clocks anyway, Janim,” Zizzy greeted her old friend with a smile and dug out the breakfast pastries. “Besides, I know you only talk to me because I bribe you with sweets, ever since the others stopped letting you sneak them out of the kitchens. I shouldn’t, but you’d probably try to reach Kellen’s stall for them if I didn’t show up.”

  “Pshaw!” the old man gusted. “I’d never bother limping that far. I’d bribe a supplicant or one of the dishwashers. I may be too old for an Augury Ritual, but I can still give advice about money and love. Don’t even need my talents for that, it’s all just age and experience.”

  Zizzy elbowed him gently in the ribs as they both chewed on the sweet pastries, her being careful of crumbs, while he fully enjoyed the rare treat and left evidence down the front of his robes. While they enjoyed their breakfast in silence, the sky flashed three times in rapid succession with searing golden light.

  “They’ve been at it all week, ever since the Purple Night,” said Zizzy, as her companion produced a clay jar and two simple cups from somewhere within his robes with a flourish. Handing her a cup, he poured a smooth, dark liquid for each of them and set the now-empty jug down next to the bench. Wiping his mouth with a corner of his robe in a distinctly unpriestly manner, he held his cup up, and he looked at her expectantly.

  Zizzy cocked an eyebrow at him but couldn’t maintain her serious composure for more than a few heartbeats. She waved her fingers over each cup with a small expenditure of Mana and a soft affectionate laugh. With the chocolate beverage now steaming gently, Janim took a few sips to wash the last of his pastry down before speaking again.

  “The Storm Breakers don’t consult with the temple, but even we can feel the storm to the west. Whatever happened on the Purple Night disturbed the wind and Mana currents all the way out over the Western Sea.” The retired [Dreamsight Diviner] sipped his chocolate thoughtfully and then continued. “All of us here dreamed of The Burning Woman that night, Ziz. I can’t be sure, but I strongly feel that every single Talent and Touched on the continent did. And then the [Oracle]’s announcement of Worldwalkers coming through right after word of the Deskren Raid on Possibility. If I thought my heart could take it, I’d do an Augury tonight!”

  “You better not, old man!” Zizzy snapped. “I didn’t pull a pack of brats out of that burning warehouse just so you could start ending your own stories before their time!” Her grip, freshly white-knuckled in consternation, caused the cup to quiver gently. Janim patted her knee in conciliation.

  “Don’t worry, Constable. I’d need a bigger reason than dreams and uncertainty to put my aching bones through that these days. Peace! Stop looking at me like that!”

  Zizzy kept up her scolding look as she silently sipped at her chocolate, enjoying her friend’s mild discomfort just a tiny bit more than was probably appropriate. The sky flashed again, interrupting their moment of amusement with a grim reminder.

  “They must be wearing even the auxiliaries out to constantly fire the array, Janim. I’ve never seen the Storm Breakers have to work so hard, not in all my years in the city.”

  “Worse, Constable. They’ve had to start calling up the old contracts, conscripting mages and wizards and their students from the Academies and from Stormbreak College. There’re whispers that they may have to fire the entire Master Array, all seven circles and Storm Break itself. That hasn’t been done in…” Janim wandered off in thought, “at leas
t two centuries. No one living has ever even seen the Array at full power. They’d have to evacuate parts of the city, too; people have built over the old Runic Lines, it’s been that long.”

  “Have the other Dreamers not been able to offer guidance?”

  “They can’t, although they’d never admit it. Looking anywhere near a Mana storm is madness, even with the smallest ones. Trying any sort of divination about one this large could bleed over into a shared nightmare. With the dozens of precognitive classers at the temple, that would spread out, trapping innocent people as well as whoever did the looking.”

  She shuddered at the thought. The risks were bad enough when they only affected the person seeking the visions. Dragging random bystanders into it was an even more unpleasant thought.

  “One thing all of us with foresight abilities agree on though, Zizzy.” The priest had a solemn look that clashed with his usual friendly-gruff persona as he spoke. “If the Storm Breakers can’t break this storm, say goodbye to the island and half the coast. It’ll scour inland across the Golden Meadows and won’t stop ‘til it hits the Wildwall Mountains. It won’t be so bad over land for the people, at first. But there’d be no harvests this year, and on top of that, there’d be so much wild Mana permeating the soil. Nothing would grow right for two or three years. At a minimum, mind you.”

  “None of the reports at the office have even hinted at it being that bad, Janim. But that’s not surprising; the Wardens couldn’t handle an evacuation even if they tried to call one.” Zizzy sat back and sipped her chocolate somberly.

  “Indeed,” sighed the old priest. “Best us islanders can hope for is to shelter in the interior, but there’s nowhere near enough room under Storm Break’s shield enchantments for everyone.”

  “What about the academies? I know they all have protective spells…”

  “I really don’t think it will come to that, Ziz. While all our dreams certainly seem dire, they always end with a hopeful note none of us can see clearly. I have faith and will wait it out, like always.” He finished off his sugary drink and relieved Zizzy of her empty cup as well. “And on that note, I’m afraid your habitual Sabenday meditation is about to be cut short…”

  The huggably large priest leveraged himself to his feet with a groan and both hands on his cane, then smiled back down at Zizzy. “I do believe that young messenger is about to arrive with your summons to appear before the lord-commander. I’m sure you’ll have important work to do, if they’re calling for you this early today.”

  While his age might have prevented the retired priest from performing the more demanding rituals of his class type, his natural prescience proved to still be in effect, as a city runner darted around the corner of the temple. A youth Zizzy didn’t recognize stood for a moment, panting to catch his breath. After a brief recovery, the boy dug through his satchel of missives. The accuracy of Priest Janim’s predictions was borne out once more as the boy handed her a simple grey card of thick parchment, with the Stormbreak Isle crest on one side and the lord-commander’s seal on the other. The card was blank save for the single word, “Urgent,” indicating that her presence was required immediately.

  Even though she didn’t recognize the boy, he apparently knew her, even if only by reputation. Her habits and her soft spot for children were well-known, and he grinned as she tossed him a silver coin and a piece of soft candy she dug out of her coat pocket before darting off toward his next destination.

  Briskly returning to her feet, Zizzy brushed the few traces of breakfast pastry from her uniform and made her way quickly back the way she’d originally come to the temple. She had no idea what she’d been summoned for, but given her history of employment and unique skillset, the list was fairly comprehensive. She was very good at her job, and frequent summonses to help in districts other than her normal Lowtown beat were not unusual in the slightest.

  She set a pace just this side of unseemly, and most pedestrians on the street cleared the way for the uniform, if not her personally. Magical things permeated the island society, which meant magically inclined people, including criminals. And that meant appropriately swift and magically talented law enforcement was necessary. Few people were willing to risk the ire of anyone in the service of the Stormbreak Wardens when it was so obvious they were on official business.

  With a nod to Kellen, the baker’s daughter, Zizzy made her way back out through the gap in the cliffs that was Upper Market Row. After another right-hand turn, she continued eastward along the street overlooking the harbor. She was already on the right terraced level, so she skipped both Mana-lifts between her and her destination. Another curve around the edge of the cliff revealed what looked like half of a tower, split vertically and stuck into the cliff face as if a giant’s hand had pushed it into clay.

  Storm’s Hold was the headquarters of the Stormbreak Wardens, and it had offices and entrances on each of the city’s different elevation districts. Its foundations were sunk deep below the waves, while its upper floors towered above all else, save Storm Break itself.

  Noisy taprooms and quiet back alleys alike held tales of hundreds of underground floors to match the ones above, but Zizzy knew the truth of the dungeons was nowhere near so dramatic. Its actual dungeons weren’t even below sea level; they just didn’t have windows to the outside, and air was vented in through ducts that caught the ocean’s constant winds and kept the whole tower from suffering stagnant air.

  Ducking into a side entrance in order to avoid the lines of various civilians and functionaries going about their business, she felt her badge pulse on her chest as the security enchantments lining the archway verified her access. The private entrances would treat unauthorized persons as hostile, and the results, while not demonstrated often, were neither pretty nor easy to clean up.

  Heeding the summons, Zizzy went right past her own small but paper-strewn office, turning back toward the main space of the lobby and stepping around busy clerks, Wardens, and Patrol Watchmen going about their respective tasks. As she walked, she couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversation, in low and worried tones, from the other people working at desks or standing in the halls.

  “Another one at Southpeak Village?”

  “We don’t know. It looks like the same one that hit Shepherd’s Craig and the Western Glenn.”

  She didn’t recognize the whisperers, but the entire office area seemed nervous and apprehensive. More hushed conversation drifted past her as she walked, but the remainder fell below the level of her hearing. Dismissing further consideration, she passed through the administrative section of the Wardens and went up the shallow steps to the lord-commander’s private offices.

  “I’m sorry, Ziz; you can’t go in!” A young and flustered secretary stood up from the desk near the heavy double-doors of the office, holding up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “He requested—”

  Zizzy held up her summons card with the lord-commander’s seal stamped on it. “He requested my presence immediately, Megyn, and I know full well that you don’t keep the lord-commander waiting.”

  Megyn sat back down at her desk, looking worried as the constable stepped around her with a soothing wave of her hands. “Don’t worry; I’ll take the heat if he’s upset, Megyn. He’s not so gruff as he pretends, once you get to know him”

  Zizzy pushed open the heavy double doors to reveal a middle-aged man with graying temples sitting behind a desk even more cluttered than her own. The lord-commander of the Stormbreak Wardens cared much more for results than appearances. What held his attention was a formal envelope sitting on the center of the sprawl of papers, quill pens, and inkwells scattered across his workspace.

  The lord-commander didn’t even look up as he waved at one of the simple but sturdy chairs in front of the desk. His eyes never left the document, a plain envelope of thick, soft parchment with an unmistakable pearlescent sheen of Mana embossed into the very fibers. Zizzy drew a sharp breath; despite this being one of the few times she’d ever laid
eyes on it, she instantly knew what the stationery meant.

  “I thought the [Oracle] was missing since the Deskren raid, presumed taken and collared?”

  “Indeed, that was the assumption, until now,” the man said in a deep, gravelly tone. “But this is one Seal that cannot be faked, not even with [Divine] assistance.” He stared down at the enchanted seal that had held the envelope closed, the image of a half-lidded eye seeming to flicker between open and closed, as if the wax-like metal were alive. “I know you’ve seen the Seal before, but this is the first to arrive during my own tenure behind this desk, and I’ve long been among those who believe this chair should be yours. You have twice the years in the Wardens as me or anyone else.”

  “Don’t give me that, Terrick. You earned it, and I wouldn’t take the job even if the Council would stand for me in the seat. Are you going to keep being mysterious, or are you going to tell me what the [Oracle] wants?”

  “It’s not what she wants. She almost never makes requests; you know that better than I.” Terrick, the man, finally showed through the mask of the lord-commander as he rubbed his face with one tired hand and leaned back in his chair. “You’re aware of the killings that started in the southern villages on the Isle?”

  “Only what the gossip lines have said around my district. You know Hightown loves drama more than the truth, though, and I’ve been busier than usual, since the Purple Night got everyone skittish.”

  He pulled a stack of sketches, colored and detailed with the expert touch of a very skilled [Mana-Scribe], and passed it to her before continuing. “Nine victims so far. None during the Purple Night, but they start the night after. Two classless shepard’s boys out in the central hills with their family’s flocks. The next, a young girl from Southpeak Village. But then, whoever it is got Circle-Master Gallern of the Southpeak Array Overseers.”

  Zizzy had been growing more and more pale as she flipped through the sketches of obscenely desecrated bodies. Her experienced eye informed her that the victims had been kept alive to suffer until the very end. “These wounds, the tearing—it looks like a ritual, but there’s no circle, no spell array. Like someone’s doing it just to hurt them.” Her voice was stiff and clinical as she relied on years of experience to keep a measure of detachment, and yet she could not help her sudden shiver of revulsion.