Shattering the Ley (3 page)

Then, a gout of light shot upward from the Nexus, like spume against a cliff, or the jets of water in the fountain at the base of the tower. It was followed by more, each higher than the last, until they rose higher than the windows of the Great Hall. Across the way, the figures on the balcony outside panicked, most fleeing inside their tower, but not before one of the spumes cascaded down over the ledge, catching two people in its light. It poured down from the balcony like water, leaving two bodies crumpled behind it.

The activity of the light shifted, the focus of the energy concentrating toward a section of Grass that had been cleared and prepared for the new tower.

When the first thick tendrils shot forth from the ground, those pressed closest to the windows jerked backward, stumbling into the people behind them. The vines grew unnaturally fast, stretching into the sky, twining around each other as they rose. Leaves burst from nodules, unfurling in the space of a heartbeat; leaves so large they’d engulf the entire room of lords and ladies whole. The foliage began enclosing the tower, forming its walls, the head rising into the night sky like a bud on a flower. Allan watched in awe, struck dumb by the sheer immensity of it, the raw power he could see but couldn’t feel. Nothing like this had ever occurred in Canter; nothing like this ever would. This was why he’d left, why he’d journeyed to the city, the hope of joining the Dogs burning inside him. In Canter, the most he could hope for was life as a guard for a local merchant. In Erenthrall. . . .

In Erenthrall, he could be anything he wanted.

“Sacrilege!”

Allan turned as the shout broke through the awe that held the group at the windows. He glared around at the surrounding people, most still transfixed by the sowing of the tower, their faces awash in the white light from the Nexus below. But near the center of the windows, people were stepping back, eyes wide in shock.

“It’s a desecration!” a man’s voice bellowed, roaring out above those gathered. “It’s blasphemy! We are cavorting with a power that we cannot control and it is not natural!”

Allan shoved forward through the press of guests, thrusting lords and ladies alike aside as a sickening sense of foreboding drove daggers into his gut. Men cursed and stumbled out of his path, wax splattering from their candles, and women shot him black looks. But he focused on the window, where the crush of people had opened up into an empty circle. He couldn’t see the man, but he could hear him as the tirade continued and he knew who it was, knew it even before he caught sight of his green shirt.

“The ley was not meant to be harnessed,” the man cried, his voice rising. “It was not meant to be leashed. We are subverting a natural power, one tied to the earth. Even our ancestors knew this! We can see it in the stones, in the sacred grounds that our ancestors worshipped! They revered this power, gave it the respect it deserves! We abuse it!”

Allan reached the edge of the circle where the press of bodies became too great for him to charge through. He barked, “Dog! Out of my way!” and tried to press forward, but the lords and ladies didn’t move. He could see the green-shirted man now, could see him as the deranged man paced back and forth before the window, the white blaze of the ley behind him as it fountained higher, the writhing vines of the tower struggling upward. He flung his arms wide, and as he did, Allan caught sight of something odd beneath his loose shirt. But the dagger the man suddenly produced distracted him, filling him with a sense of dread. He didn’t have time to wonder how he’d managed to get the blade past the guards, didn’t have time to react at all. The man’s face was strained with righteous anger, eyes blazing with rage as he gestured toward the sowing with the blade in his hand.

“This is the latest desecration, the latest folly of our Baron! The Wielders pervert nature to our needs, twist the ley to their own purposes, suppress the land and its natural laws to build this city, to give us comfort, to provide for us, and it is time to stop! It is time to halt the sacrilege! It is time to return the ley to its proper course!”

Allan heard someone shout his name over the man’s fervor and caught sight of Hagger and two other Dogs on the far side of the room, farther away than Allan and trapped by the crush of bodies. Hagger’s face was livid with pure rage. The Dog snapped his hands in a short, final gesture whose message was clear: “Stop it! End it now!”

Allan spun back to the green-shirted man in time to see him slash down across his own chest with the dagger.

Women screamed, two fainting, and men cried out as liquid spilled outward, splattering the floor, drenching the front of the man’s body. The crowd surged backward and away, the space between the man and the lords suddenly widening. Allan was thrust back, someone’s elbow catching him hard in the side, but with a deep, low growl, he roared again, “Out of my way, damn it!” and grabbed the man before him by the shoulders, hauling him back and to the side. The man fell with a harsh, panicked cry, taking two more guests with him, but opening up a space into the circle. Allan leaped over the fallen lord, even as the green-shirted man lifted his head and arms skyward, even as the sharp scent of oil slammed into Allan’s nostrils with gagging force and he realized that the liquid coating the man’s front wasn’t blood.

“For the ley! For the Kormanley!”

Allan surged across the small space between the lords and ladies and the green-shirted priest of the Kormanley. But the priest ignored him, caught up in the rapture of the moment. He fell to his knees, reached down with his free hand, grabbed one of the white tapered candles that the servants had handed out earlier, and brought the dancing flame to his chest.

Allan heard the whoosh of the fire as it caught in the oil, felt the heat of the flames burn his face as the man was engulfed in the space of a breath. The man screamed, the orange-red fire of the oil in sharp contrast to the still seething white fire of the ley outside the tower windows. Allan counted one heartbeat, two, felt the air sucked from his lungs by the conflagration, noted that the newly sown tower had almost neared completion outside, its bulbous top slowing in its ascent, the leaves folding gently to the tower’s sides—

And then he tackled the pillar of flame the priest had become.

Fire seared his face and hands as they crashed to the amber floor and rolled. He tasted smoke and ash, felt heat through the layers of his uniform, smelled burned flesh and grunted at the beginnings of pain, and then he stopped trying to breathe, held everything tight—his eyes, his chest, the body of the priest—as he rolled back and forth on the floor trying to smother the fire. Screams and shouts filtered through the sizzle and snap of flame. The buttons of his uniform heated up and burned into his skin. His lungs began to ache for air and he caught himself trying to whimper as tears squeezed from his eyes.

And then someone was beating at him with a heavy cloth. He heard Hagger bellow, “Let go! He’s almost out!” and he broke free of the priest and rolled away with a gasp, inhaling harshly. The air reeked of char and oil, but he didn’t care. Hagger smothered him in a heavy tapestry—one of those from the walls—but turned toward the priest, leaving Allan to put himself out. He’d barely moved when the servant from earlier knelt at his side, grabbing the tapestry with two hands and beating it against him where his clothes still smoldered.

“Stop,” Allan murmured. When she continued, her motions frantic, her eyes too wide, he grabbed one of her flailing arms and said, louder, “Stop!”

She tried to pull out of his grasp, then caught herself, some of the panic draining from her gaze.

“I think I’m out,” he said. He tried to smile, but winced and groaned instead. His skin felt waxy and hot in patches, and his entire body throbbed.

The servant snorted, then dropped the tapestry.

“He’s out, too,” Hagger said. “Permanently.”

He stood over the priest’s body, glaring down at the man’s shirt in disgust. Kneeling, he pulled back the charred remains of the clothing, some of the skin peeling back with it. He grimaced.

“He had skins tied around his chest,” he said, lifting one of them so that Allan could see, “filled with oil. He intended to kill himself.” He glanced around at the guests, all staying a good ten paces back, some of the women sobbing into their companions’ shoulders, others tending to those who’d fainted. All of their faces were grim or troubled. In a voice pitched so low only Allan and the servant could hear, he said, “And perhaps kill some of the others as well.”

Then he stood, moved to stare down at Allan. He considered him for a long moment, his face unreadable, then nudged Allan’s still smoking arm with one foot.

“Perhaps you’ll make a Dog after all, Pup.”

T
HE ROOM FULL OF DOGS,
Wielders, and assorted servants and dignitaries stilled when the double doors that had been opened wide the night before to allow the guests into the hall were flung back by Baron Arent Pallentor. He paused in the entrance, accompanied by Daedallen, captain of the Dogs, and Prime Wielder Augustus. The Baron’s eyes swept the room once, passing over Allan without hesitation, settling on one of the numerous higher-ranking Dogs in the center of the windows where the charred remains of the Kormanley priest still lay. As the Baron strode forward, flanked by Daedallen and Augustus, Allan shifted forward, but Hagger’s hand closed tight on his wrist. Allan winced. His skin was raw from the burns he’d received trying to subdue the priest. His uniform had protected most of his body from serious damage, but his face and hands had been exposed. As he grimaced, he could feel the tightness of the skin beneath his jaw and across his left cheek. The healer that had been called had rubbed in some type of unguent that would help, but he’d said there would be scarring. Allan’s hands had fared slightly better.

Sympathy flashed across Hagger’s face as he caught Allan’s reaction, but he didn’t let go of Allan’s arm. In a voice that would not carry beyond the corner where they stood, he said, “You don’t approach the Baron unless he asks you to, Pup.”

Allan settled back against the wall and Hagger released his grip.

Trying to ignore the cool yet spicy scent of the unguent, Allan focused on the activity near the blackened body. This was as close as he’d ever been to the Baron, the Lord of Grass himself, and he was not what Allan had expected. A few inches shorter than Allan, he was thinner and lankier, his clothes cut to emphasize the angularity of his body. The shirt was a subtle dark blue, stitched with gold thread, his breeches a sleek black, much simpler in style and form than anything the minor lords and ladies had worn the night before. The only ostentatious part of his attire was the gold belt and scabbard, with the rather plain hilt of a short sword visible in the sheath. Allan watched as the Baron moved, fluid and precise, and realized the sword wasn’t an affectation; the Baron knew how to use it. And even though he’d ruled Erenthrall for over sixty years, he appeared to be no more than fifty.

The Baron stood over the body a long moment, spoke softly to the captain of the Dogs at his side, then listened to the response. They were too distant for Allan to hear the words, but Prime Wielder Augustus made a comment when Daedallen had finished, one hand motioning toward the body, and the Baron frowned. Augustus didn’t react to the glare, his attention fixed on the body.

Baron Arent called one of the other Dogs forward, a blond-haired man twice as broad as Allan.

“That’s Terrence,” Hagger murmured, “one of Daedallen’s seconds. He’s the one my alpha reports to and gets his orders from.”

“I know. I’ve seen him in the yard.”

Hagger’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And you learned who he was?”

“He seemed important.”

Hagger stared at him a long moment, the expression on his face unreadable, then he grunted. “You’re more dangerous than I thought.”

Across the room, Baron Arent, Daedallen, and Augustus glanced toward both of them and Allan straightened, his burnt clothes crackling. A servant headed toward them at a word from Arent.

“Ah,” Hagger muttered, and took one step forward, his demeanor and stance altering from bored to formal with a shift of his shoulders.

The servant halted two paces away. “The Baron requests an audience,” he said stiffly.

“Lead the way.”

The servant spun, Hagger following a few steps behind, Allan last. Allan’s heart quickened as they halted a few steps from the Baron and the others, the Baron’s eyes on Hagger. When he turned to look at Allan, Allan sucked in a sharp breath.

And instantly regretted it. The stench of burned and blackened skin, even hours old, slammed into him and he choked on his own breath, suppressing it to nothing more than a faint snort. Swallowing rapidly, he fought the urge to keel over and vomit, like some of the others had done the night before upon seeing the body. The Baron’s eyes lanced into him, a muddy brown with hints of gold and green that left him exposed, naked and raw. Allan felt certain that the Baron understood everything in that one look, realized that he’d probably noted Allan and Hagger when he entered, and had dismissed them.

Then the Baron turned toward Terrence. Allan exhaled, and found himself trembling as if he’d been weakened.

“These are the two who interceded last night?” Baron Arent asked. His voice was mild, almost casual.

Terrence nodded. “They were stationed inside the room, among others, to watch over the guests and to make the Dogs’ presence known.”

“And none of those stationed outside noticed anything remarkable about this man?” He didn’t gesture or glance toward the body, but nearly everyone looked down, including Terrence. A few grimaced and turned away immediately.

“No. He had the appropriate credentials, an invitation addressed to a Lord Pickerell of Ovant, with all of the required markings.”

“And no one noticed anything else amiss?”

Terrence drew breath to answer, but Allan interrupted. “I did.”

Allan flinched when Baron Arent turned to him. He saw Hagger shift slightly forward out of the corner of his eye but didn’t dare turn. Both Daedallen and Augustus shifted their attention to him as well. Allan’s skin prickled under the black glare of the captain of the Dogs, but it was Augustus who spoke, his voice scathing.

“And you did nothing?”

Daedallen bristled and annoyed anger flashed across the Baron’s face.

Allan felt heat flare upward from his neck. “There didn’t seem to be a threat—”

“No threat!” Augustus boomed, cutting off his stuttered response. “He somehow managed to get into one of the Baron’s parties carrying not only a knife but enough oil to immolate himself! What if he’d had a different purpose? What if he’d managed to bring in something more deadly, something seemingly innocent, something that could have interrupted the sowing of the tower? All he would need to do is upset the balance of the sowing enough to release the ley from its controls and there would have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of deaths. We lost over twenty to sheer stup—”

“Prime Augustus.”

The Prime’s tirade shut off abruptly at the Baron’s words, as if severed with a blade, even though Baron Arent had not shouted. Augustus spun to face him, but stilled at the Baron’s raised eyebrow.

“While I applaud your concern over the success of the sowing,” the Baron said, the words twisted with anger and irony, “and my general health and well-being, I’d like to ask him a few questions myself.”

Augustus struggled with himself a moment, then stepped back. “Of course. You are the Baron after all.”

Baron Arent’s eyes narrowed and Allan sensed an undercurrent between them that he didn’t understand, but then the Baron turned toward him again, the anger slipping from his face. Allan suddenly realized he hadn’t been angry with him a few moments before, but with Augustus, and a tension in his shoulders eased. He tried to calm his racing heart and felt the heat in his face and neck recede slightly.

“Now, tell us what you noticed.”

Allan swallowed once. “When the three Wielders arrived and stepped through the room, heading toward the tower heights, I noticed this man step forward as they passed, as if he wanted to follow them. And his face was . . . enraged. But he stopped himself. By the time the Wielders had left, he’d collected himself and returned to the party as if nothing had happened.”

“Why didn’t you report this to Hagger, or to one of the other Dogs?”

It was the first time Daedallen had said anything. His voice rumbled, like the low growl of distant thunder.

“It was just a look. I didn’t think it was important.”

“Yet according to Hagger’s report, you followed him after that.”

Allan nodded, shooting a quick glance toward Hagger. He hadn’t noticed the older Dog watching him, following his movements. “I wanted to see if he did anything else odd, but he didn’t. He merely drank and spoke to the guests. And then the sowing started and—”

“And you were distracted,” Baron Arent finished for him. Allan didn’t hear any judgment in his voice, but he lowered his head and said nothing.

After a long moment, the Baron said, “It’s my understanding that Baron Leethe was in attendance as well. Did you find this odd?”

Allan nodded. “Yes. I wondered why he wasn’t at the main party, with you and the other Barons.”

“He should have been. Did this man—the priest—did he speak to the Baron at all?”

Allan thought back to the night before, then shook his head. “Not that I saw.”

Baron Arent frowned in disappointment and exchanged a look with Daedallen. “Very well.” He caught Augustus’ eye. “And you’re certain that there was no use of the ley involved in any of this? The priest was not attempting to disrupt the sowing?”

Augustus straightened. “There is no indication he used the ley, no.”

The Baron glanced down at the body and anger crept into his voice. “Then this was simply a protest, like those on the streets.”

“It was more,” Daedallen said. “On the streets, they simply talk. This is an escalation. I don’t like where the Kormanley’s protests are headed. If they are willing to kill themselves for their cause, it is only a small step toward killing others. They may begin targeting Dogs, or Wielders, or even you.”

Baron Arent frowned, creases appearing in his forehead. “Have you learned anything from those we’ve arrested around the city? Did any of them have knowledge of the immolation?”

“None. The priests of the Kormanley do not appear to know many other members of their own group by sight. It appears they meet in secret, using coded markings to call meetings where they wear hoods under cover of darkness, only five members or fewer at one time.” Daedallen’s voice had grown rougher in annoyance. “It is impossible to determine who else is a member based on the descriptions we are getting from those arrested.”

“Have you tried the Hounds?”

Daedallen shook his head. “Not yet. I didn’t feel the Hounds would be required. The Kormanley did not seem that dangerous. However, now. . . .” He glanced toward the Baron. “Do you want me to call them out?”

Baron Arent considered a long moment, staring down at the body, Daedallen, Hagger, and the other Dogs close by tense. “No,” he said finally. “Calling out the Hounds will draw the attentions of the other Barons. See what the Dogs can find out first. Increase the patrols in the areas where the Kormanley appear to protest most—the Stone District, perhaps Leeds and Green—and continue the interrogations of those we have.” He turned abruptly toward Allan. “And give this Dog something more meaningful to do besides watch over guests at parties.”

Then he stepped over the charred body at his feet, moving swiftly toward the doors, Augustus hesitating before following. Daedallen stared at Allan a long moment before nodding. “You heard Baron Arent,” he said to Terrence. “Assign this Dog’s pack to the patrols.”

“Very well.”

Allan turned toward Hagger as Daedallen departed with Terrence and a few other Dogs at his heels.

The old Dog grunted. “Much more dangerous.”

“Have you heard?”

Dalton halted in the doorway at the demanding question, quelling a burst of irritation. He hadn’t even set foot inside the sanctity of the meeting chamber yet and already he was being pummeled with questions? He shot a baleful glance over the five members already inside, letting it fall on Tyrus, the one who’d spoken, last.

“It’s why I came,” he said, then purposefully knelt and genuflected before the door, drawing his hand across its entrance, leaving a faint trail in the dirt among several others. He muttered a short prayer beneath his breath and tried to center himself before rising and stepping into the room.

Tyrus waved a hand in dismissal and began pacing. “They’ve taken this too far,” he growled. “I knew this . . . this splinter group would be trouble the moment we heard about it. I can’t believe we allowed them to continue once we found out they were meeting on their own in secret. We should have forced them to disband—”

“And had them regroup and meet again, with more precautions?” Dalton asked with a raised eyebrow. “Disbanding them would only have made them angrier. At least now we know who they are and what they are up to.”

“Do we?” Tyrus rounded on him as Dalton settled into one of the high-backed chairs surrounding the rough-hewn oak table in the center of the chamber. “Did you know what they planned at the Baron’s party?” He stalked toward Dalton, his fervor altering as he approached, hand outstretched, his words now edged in horror. “One of them lit himself on fire, Dalton! He immolated himself in protest! The Kormanley is peaceful. We have always been peaceful.”

Tyrus leaned forward onto the oak table, as if he’d used up all of his energy to get there, then fell back into the chair next to Dalton. “What have they done?”

Dalton listened to the low murmur that arose from the other members present, heard the strained fear in the tone of their voices, then cleared his throat.