Page 31 of The Cradle of Ice
Alone now for the past three bells, Frell intended to pursue his own investigation here in his study. The space was a quarter the size of his scholarium at Kepenhill. He missed his old place, which was centered around a giant bronze scope that he had used for his astronomical studies, a scholarship that had confirmed the slow and incremental swelling of the moon’s face over centuries of time, warning of a pending apocalypse.
Moonfall …
Remembering the earlier quake, he stopped at a window to stare up at that threat in the sky. According to the Hálendiian faith, the moon was home to the twin gods, the bright Son and dark Daughter, who continually chased each other around and around, waxing and waning the moon’s countenance. Presently, the silvery face of the Son glowed full in a sky that had dimmed to purple with the last bell of Eventoll. The sun itself was currently out of sight, shining near the horizon behind the tower.
Frell had been studying the sky’s celestial dance for the entirety of his scholarship at Kepenhill. Astronomical studies had always fascinated him, going back to his earliest days as a child. He rubbed his left shoulder, where a family brand had been burned into his skin, marking his heritage. He hailed from the cold northern steppes of Aglerolarpok, at the westernmost edge of the Crown, where the sun would sink most of the way each winter, allowing the glittering arc of stars to reveal themselves, offering a glimpse of the hidden void and its vast mysteries. As a boy, he would often climb atop the roof of their family barn and gaze in wonder at the splendor, sometimes even seeing the radiant shimmer of the Veils waving across the northern horizon in hues of emerald and blues.
Such a life seemed forever ago, not even his own. His family had owned a horse ranch, raising the hardy and prized Aglerolarpok ponies. Oftentimes, he swore he could still smell their musky sweat, the heavy drapes of their manes. The odor seemed to rise off his own skin, as if his young body had been inescapably steeped in the brine of their scent.
Still, that was ages ago …
He turned his back to the window.
How simple life had been back then.
The rhythms and pace of those days had been comfortably routine: waking as the sun showed its full face, moving ponies to their pastures, the ever-rolling cycle of foaling seasons. It seemed like another person’s life, something he read in an old husbandry text.
When he was only eight, he had shown enough promise that a teacher advocated for him to seek a spot at one of the Hálendiian schools. His mother’s face had shone with such pride, while his father had simply looked relieved, perhaps happy to cast his seventh son aside, a son who was more dreamer than horseman. Frell was tested and accepted into the Cloistery of Brayk, a school deep in the Mýr swamps. After he had risen through its nine tiers and gained the black robe of alchymy, he had moved on to the school of Kepenhill, becoming the youngest member of their ruling Council of Eight. It was there he met Prince Kanthe and where his studies revealed the danger hanging over their heads, a threat that would be confirmed by the visions of a young girl.
And now, ever a wanderer, I’ve moved on yet again to the Southern Klashe.
He shook away this reverie and crossed to his wide desk. Its surface was piled with dusty books and stacked with brittle scrolls. Some he had carried with him—mostly those astronomical treatises concerning the moon—but others he had culled from the libraries across the vast city of Kysalimri. He had even ventured into the Bad’i Chaa to search its shelves. The school’s librarie was easily tenfold larger than the one at Kepenhill. Still, he had been happy to leave the House of Wisdom, a dreary and solemn city within a city. To him, it appeared to be more a prison than a school. Few would meet his eye; none would speak to him. Then again, he had to wear his veil, marking him as an Unfettered. Even out in the streets, he had been shunned, as if brushing against him might lower one’s caste, a system so complicated he still failed to understand it fully.
Pratik had tried to illuminate those mysteries, to explain how each citizen served as a cog in the vast machine that was Kysalimri. They each knew their place, their duty, and took solace in their role. And maybe he was right. Most seemed resigned, if not happy with their fate, having a task they could take pride in. It was said that the oil that fueled this city was the blood of its people. And despite his personal misgivings, it had worked for eighteen centuries.
Kysalimri remained the Crown’s oldest city.
It was also home to the land’s most ancient scholarly order—the Dresh’ri—who were centuries older than even the daemon-worshipping Iflelen back in Hálendii. The Iflelen cabal adorated the dark god Ðreyk, whose sigil was the viperous horn’d snaken. Blood sacrifices were burned at His altars far below Kepenhill.
Frell frowned, weighing Pratik’s earlier warning.
Do the Dresh’ri have their own dark god—or in this case, goddess—whom they worship?
He had not even considered this possibility but did not doubt its veracity. And not just because of Pratik’s assertion. Another had made a similar accusation once, long ago. It was why his thoughts had drifted into a melancholy past. While studying at the Cloistery of Brayk, he had been befriended by the head of the school—Prioress Ghyle—who hailed from the Southern Klashe. After events of the past summer, where she had helped Nyx and her allies, Frell had heard rumors that the prioress had been dragged in chains to Azantiia, where it was believed she was executed.
Frell closed his eyes, trying to squeeze back a heartbreak that was wrung with guilt.
The two of them had shared countless long evenings, deep in conversation, often deeper into their cups. They had discussed philosophy, esoteric theories of alchymy, even heretical talks of religion. Pratik’s earlier words stirred up an old memory, one that haunted him now. Prioress Ghyle had been discussing how the dozen Hálendiian gods found their counterparts in the Klashe, only spread across thirty-three different deities. With her words slurring, she had insisted there were actually thirty-four gods among the Klashe. He had challenged her, but she had grown pensive. He still remembered what she claimed next.
Some gods are too shadowed for the light to reach them, especially when they’re buried under the gardens of the Imri-Ka. And she offered a warning, too. Pray that such a god never claws free of the darkness. It will mark the end of the world.
At the time, Frell had dismissed her drunken ramblings as some incredulous fable.
But no longer.
Standing at the desk, he shifted a tome out of its stack and brushed dust from its cover. Gilt lettering spelled out FA MADBA ABDI’RI, which translated as At the Altar of the Eternal Eye. It was the oldest written history of the Dresh’ri. The cover depicted the scalloped wings of a black bat with a golden eye in the center, the sigil of the secretive order.
Frell ran a finger along the symbol, reminded of Nyx and her companion. He wondered how she and the others were faring. He had no way of knowing. All he could do was focus on his own task.
He had already scoured this particular book, hoping it would help him better understand the order. It claimed the Dresh’ri were the founders not only of the House of Wisdom, but of all the Crown’s schools. Which could be true. While each school was unique—some freer, others stricter—they basically adhered to the nine-tiered structure. Further bolstering this assertion, the Dresh’ri maintained their order’s strict number by getting first pick of the Wisdom’s graduating scholars, overriding all other claims. It is said even emperors bowed before the Dresh’ri.
Of course, wilder assertions peppered the book, some clearly fanciful: that the Dresh’ri could commune with the dead, conjure up spirits, bend others to their will with a single breath, even craft unique alchymies out of blood tailored to that person, from love spylls to specialty poisons.
With a slight chill at this thought, Frell rubbed the crook of his arm, where his own blood had been leeched away. Pratik claimed it could be used to better judge Frell. He hoped that was all they did with his life’s blood.
Pushing down that worry, he picked up the book, intending to read through it again, to search for any inkling of this Vyk dyre Rha, this Shadow Queen, haunting between its lines.
I must know more before I dare venture into their librarie.
