Chương 3

Trust is heavier and more precious than gold. Beware its weight. Thunder rolled far above the town of Vale, faint and almost drowned out by the clatter of wagons. Coming from the north, Harker had been surprised at how many people were on the road at such a late hour. Folks were scattered this far out, and if he saw more than two families in one place it was either for a festival or a funeral. Except now, wagons rattled down the road, hounds panting and children squealing despite the soon-to-set sun.

Lothan Merrik, Mother Mavis, even old Zem came outta the northwoods. It made him all the happier that he'd chosen to walk in the forest—the less he was seen, the better. Still, Harker scratched his jaw, trying to work it out. Why're they all coming into town now? The wagons were covered and pulled by aging bullhounds. They trundled down the rutted pathways, making good time only because of the still-frozen mud. Come Spring, the roads would be a bog for months before the sun baked them back into shape.

The cart-sized bullhounds panted heavily through their short snouts while they hauled entire families behind them, massive jowls leaving trails of slobber along the way. In the back, a series of colorful ribbons fluttered from beneath the thick, oiled canvas. A festival, then. What is—ah. Right. Threllsnacht. He hadn't realized the festival was so close. If they were heading into town now, that meant it was set to start at the following dawn… and tonight would be the lighting of the Charterstones.

Another weary groan climbed his throat before he shoved it back down. Vale'll be packed to the gills come sundown. Staying outta sight will be hard. He had to move. When the northwoods came to an end, it was within spitting distance of Vale's modest walls. The road led to a small gate manned by the militia—jumped up farmers, Talented but little else. But not everywhere was watched so well. The last two decades had taught Harker a great deal about getting in and out of town without notice.

He walked parallel to the wall for several hundred yards, until a familiar set of bricks came into sight. The militia kept the forest cut back, but they weren't as keen-eyed as they claimed. A simple vine planted at the base of the wall and nurtured with his limited Water over long Summers had displaced the stone bricks.

Eskale's Choker was known for its strong, invasive roots, and while the displacement was minor—practically invisible to an apathetic eye—the tiny ledges were more than enough for a practiced climber to ascend. Harker clambered up and over, moving perhaps a touch too fast. He scraped his knee and split open two knuckles, but thirty seconds later he was in. His mother had always called Vale a small town, but to Harker it was huge. Compared to the wilds it was also a beehive of activity even on the side streets.

Thankfully, no one saw him land along the wall road but he made sure not to linger. He quickly ducked between a row of homes, heading downslope. Law 1: Avoid Attention. Vale was built along the sides of two steep hills, bisected by the rush of the Gallant River. Sections of the town were propped up on reinforced embankments that stepped down, one winding street after another, carved out of the dirt by decades of earth Talents.

Most were marred by ruts and potholes large enough to lose a child in—as was any street more than two blocks away from town square. The mayor and his council cared little for folks that lived beyond the riverbanks. Law 2: Trust Others To Act In Their Own Best Interests. Harker made sure to hustle forward, not too fast but not too slow either—a loping pace he hoped most would read as "busy" and not "running from trouble."

Stacked-stone walls and thatch-roofed houses filled the path, and the smell of bread and evening supper clung to the thin air. He ducked his head or turned down alleyways whenever he encountered a sizable knot of people, dodging around small gatherings and Water-lit shrines whenever they crowded the path.

"Good eventide! Be welcome in Threll's presence." An Ancestral Keeper, garbed in orange robes, stood amid a crowd. A thin stream of people moved toward the altars, hands cupped around their own blue-green radiance. Among them were a few families, patriarchs beaming as they hustled their groomed eldest to the fore.

"Ahh," the Keeper said, a knowing smirk on his pasty face.

"You've the look of those needing the Third Ancestor's guidance!" Darus Weaver pushed his son forward, a broad-shouldered lad with a nervous smile.

"My firstborn Sean is taking the mark tonight!"

"As is my Rogier!"

"—Lyvia too!"

"Yes, of course," the Keeper said, a wide smile plastered to his face.

"They have the look of Aspirants headed for the Nine Spires!" Happy, expected murmuring rippled through the parents. Harker scowled. Taking the Chartermark meant leaving the Vale. It also meant taking the Ordeals—the entrance exam to the Nine Spires Academy. Pass and you were set for life. Fail… Fail and it was likely they'd never be seen again.

"Aspirants! Families of the Chartermarked!" The Keeper spread his arms wide, and the small bells on his sleeves chimed.

"Come! Let flow your tithe and Threll shall illuminate their Descent!" The families shuffled forward, moving closer to the statues of Threll that filled the Ancestor's alcove. Each stone hand held a vessel, filled with a blue-green, glowing liquid that roiled ceaselessly. One by one, they reached out and let their Water join the vessels, reciting one of the many canticles all the while. Harker was tempted to stop and offer his respects to the Ancestors… but he couldn't afford to pay the tithe. Never could.

The Keeper glanced his way, but he was already gone. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Onward down the winding streets, Harker turned into the nearest blind alley. With the celebrations commencing soon, too many people were out, so he clambered up a leaking drainpipe to the roof. A benefit of Vale's construction meant it was far easier to get from the outskirts to the Gallant, so long as one was willing to risk the high road.

Harker hopped from roof to roof, scaling down retaining walls and Winter-bare garden trellises, trying and failing to control his ragged breathing. He passed over more shrines, more knots of people. Ancestor or Abyssal, Harker had no business with them. The paths were swept clean and lined with newly trimmed lanterns and colorful banners. More statues shone with the faint blue-green radiance of tithed Water, like cool stars that vanished into alcoves as he passed over tiled roofs.

It wasn't long before he reached the end of the high road and was forced to climb down. The Gallant rushed in the near distance, foamy with rapids before it reached the depths near the mayor's manor. There the river was festooned with more boxy lanterns strung across one of three bridges. The crowds thickened, owing perhaps to the stalls selling savory foods, but mainly due to the three vertical stones that took up the square. Charterstones.

They were three times the height of any person he knew and half again as wide. Ancient hands had carved them, much like the temple, but where those had worn these were as sharp as the day they'd been placed. A trio of town elders stood around their bases, hands pressed against the rock and looks of concentration on their faces. A faint blue-green illumination was crawling up their lengths, brighter at the bottom, but slowly rising.

By sundown the stones would shine like fallen stars, filled and ready to bless the chosen with their Chartermark. Fools, all of them. To take on the Ordeals and enter the Nine Spires was a child's dream. The Depths are filled with monsters, there most of all, his mother had told him. Keep away from the Spires, stay grounded, and you'll live a long life. Dreams never survived the dawn. More Ancestral Keepers walked by, splitting the undyed wool of the crowd with their garish robes.

Their wide sleeves chimed as they rang fingerbells or beat small drums for passersby.

"Ancestor Threll bids you welcome! Come! Seek his blessing so you might ride the tides of good fortune!" The crowds parted for knots of people, families, all of them in their best wools and shiniest boots. Proud, they paraded their eldest forward with broad grins and nervous eyes. Young men and women, chins high and shoulders back, stepped up. The Keepers of Threll sang the canticle of glory and gave deep, meaningful sweeps of their arms.

Benedictions tumbled from the Keepers' mouths, backed by a wash of Water that swept over the crowd of prospective Aspirants. Halos clung to them, a Sea-borne light that limned their shoulders and heads before evaporating into the dark. Every one of them straightened as they passed by the gauntlet of Keepers, as if the Water had unkinked their spines. Each of them were shaved and primped and polished. Sea-smooth stones held to the firelight. Brand new and eager. Harker shifted in place.

He couldn't help but notice the feel of the cracked flagstones beneath his wrapped feet.

"It begins." Someone in the audience murmured. The Charterstones fully lit up, the labyrinths carved into their surface flaring with blue-green radiance. The elders gestured, their arms moving in looping patterns that coaxed out ripples of Water. It flowed easily as breath, like a Talent practiced for centuries. Yet none of this was due to a Talent—at least, not one of theirs. Charterstones had been created by the Spires themselves, placed in every town big enough to warrant one. In some ways, Vale was lucky.

There were millions of islands across the breadth of Teyr, and millions more towns that would never bear the honor of a Charterstone, let alone three. Then again, the stones had never been a gift. The mayor cleared his throat, patting his chest as if to emphasize the fine dark coat stitched with the orange threads of Threll.

"Long ago, the shattered isles of Teyr were drowned in blood. Aberrants rose from the Sea, breaking the Horizon. Claw, scale, and wicked fins tore through the settlements of humanity, nearly wiping us from the face of the land.

"It was only the Third Ancestor, Anuan of the Stoppered Earth, that mastered the Maelstrom and restored the Horizon. He ended the ceasless deluge of monstrosities from the Sea.

"It was Anuan, King of Chains, that bound the Maelstrom and formed above it a haven against the Sea's foulest nature. A school, bent toward providing all of humanity a chance to find peace." The Water leapt from one of the Charterstones to swirl around the mayor's outstretched hand.

"The Nine Spires Academy is a promise to fend off the Aberrants, no matter where they emerge. To be the first line of defense against the Hungry Deep. To do so, they require Talents. Strong Talents. Those willing to sacrifice for the greater good.

"To fight for all of us." One of the prospective students ascended the platform. It was the Weaver boy again. Somehow he and his family had made it down the hill faster than Harker had slipped across the rooftops. They were the same age but he only knew Weaver in passing. The Vale wasn't too large, but Harker had never… mixed well. Not Talented enough for some, too Talented for the rest. The black robed elders led the kid up the steps, rolling up Weaver's sleeve with ritual slowness.

When the mayor gestured and ripples of Water rolled through his fingers, the elders had bared the boy's right arm to the elbow.

"This night, as the sun sets, we place our first Chartermark. Bear witness," the mayor recited.

"The Vale upholds its oath." Those ripples spread, crossing the distance between mayor and young man in a blink. Water crawled across Weaver's flesh, coiling like an eel around wrist and forearm; a blue-green radiance that hovered above like a ghostly sleeve. Shapes curled through the light, undulating until they settled into a specific yet seemingly random pattern of curving lines. It sank into flesh. Weaver exhaled, gritting his teeth as his hand spasmed.

Those patterns tightened, pulling skin taut against the muscle hard enough that it seemed like it'd tear. It didn't. There was only a roar like breaking surf, and the sibilant hiss of foam cast upon rocky shores. The Charterstones pulsed, once each, and the boy sagged, nearly falling to his knees. A symbol etched across his wrist, but Harker was too far to make it out. The mayor seized Weaver's hand and lifted it triumphantly.

"The first Chartermark of the year has been accepted!" The cheer from the crowd was deafening. Mothers lifted young children and fathers slapped their friends on their backs. A few graybeards even had tears in their eyes. Harker scowled. Half of them didn't even know Weaver, or care that he'd taken the oath to go to the Spires. They were happy simply because functioning Charterstones meant more Spire-sent resources in order to "promote Talent."

Natural treasures, artifacts, or thaumist pills by the dozen would go to the mayor, elders, and disperse among the strongest families. The strong get stronger.

"Remember," the mayor said once the crowd's roar had died down.

"The marked must reach the Travelspire before time runs out or else pay for your transgression—and the price is steep. When the dawn breaks, you will take the Southroad and face your Ordeals.

"For now, Sean Weaver, eat, drink, and rejoice with your family!" The boy retreated, holding his faintly glowing limb out as if afraid to touch it, only to be engulfed by the thick arms of his father, grandfather, and numerous cousins. Others took Weaver's place by the Charterstones, eager to be next. Harker turned away. He'd seen enough.