Prologue
There was a storm on the horizon. Rae could feel it in his bones, and deep in the hollow spaces of his soul. Mother insisted that was nonsense, that Rae couldn’t possibly soulsense at his age. But Rae knew. The skies outside the window of their brick cottage were clear as sunlight, and the breeze that drifted through the boughs of the pear tree in the garden was as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss. Bees buzzed through the nodding heads of the stand of sunflowers that bordered the garden wall. There was no sign of weather, other than the twinge in the middle of his chest.
It was going to rain. Big. And Rae wanted to watch his father kill the storm.
He snuck out of the house while Mother was trying to put his younger sister, Lalette, down for her afternoon nap. If Rae had tried to leave earlier, La would have tried to tag along, and stormbinding wasn’t the business of six-year-olds.
Father’s station was a short, squat stone building at the top of a hill overlooking Hadroy House. To get there, Rae had to travel down the long lane of servants’ cottages, wind his way through the herb garden, then skim the stables and make his way over a short berm that shielded the main house from the working half of the manor.
It would have been more direct to go through the formal garden, but for the last six weeks the grassy fields that surrounded the garden had been occupied by soldiers. Rae was fascinated by their uniforms, and the long muskets they stacked in little pyramids, and the smell of gunpowder when they practiced their lines, but the guards had a habit of nabbing him and asking a lot of questions. Rae didn’t want to risk missing the storm because he was stuck in some officer’s tent, explaining for the hundredth time that his father worked for the baron.
Rae was skirting along the edge of the stables when a figure caught his eye. It was Yveth Maelys, another spiritbinder in the baron’s service, though Rae had no idea what the man did. None of our business, Mother always said. Just like the soldiers, and the sudden renovations to the abandoned huntsman’s tower at the edge of the property, and Rassek Brant, the strange, dark man who had been at Baron Hadroy’s side for the last six months. None of our business. But Rae couldn’t help being curious. So he ducked behind an empty trough and watched Yveth make his way across the paddock.
Yveth was a stormbinder, just like Rae’s dad, though the two men could not have been less alike. Where Tren Kelthannis was short and soft around the edges, with an academic tilt to his head and a wardrobe that ran toward silk and spots of ink, Yveth was tall and lean and severe. Though he knew Yveth was a stormbinder, he had never seen him help his father during the frequent storms, not even when the outer fields needed watering in the dry months of summer. All Yveth ever did was stalk around the manor house, scowling at everything and holding tense conversations with Rassek Brant at all hours of the day and night.
Rae waited until Yveth disappeared around the corner before continuing. The first rumble of thunder hung on the horizon like distant music. He would have to hurry. Rae set out at a run, dodging through the stables and reaching the grassy hill that led to the stormbinder’s tower. He started pounding up the hill, his little legs moving as fast as they could, his breath coming fast and hot in his lungs. He had to get to the tower before Father set out to take care of the storm, otherwise he would be left behind, left to watch from the tower, or worse, sent home with—
A scream cut through the sound of blood pounding in Rae’s head. He stumbled to a stop and looked back. Had that come from the stables? He turned around and squinted against the glare off the glass panes of the hothouse at the edge of the gardens. He couldn’t see anything or anyone of note. A little spooked, Rae ran up the hill.
His father was waiting for him. Tren Kelthannis had just stepped out of the squat tower at the top of the hill as Rae stomped up. He looked nervous, but when he turned around and saw Rae, Tren’s face split with joy.
“I should have known you would show up for this. Hard to keep you away from a storm, isn’t it?” Tren asked. He was dressed in the gray and green of House Hadroy, his scholar’s robes of finer material than the rough spun wool the soldiers wore. His wireframe glasses were smudged, and he was carrying a large sheaf of papers under one arm. Rae’s father tried to pick him up with one arm, precariously balancing the notes in his other. “Oof, you’ve grown twenty pounds in the last week, I swear.”
“I’m big now, Dad. You don’t have to pick me up every time,” Rae said, squirming to be released. Tren laughed again and kissed his son on the forehead, then set him down. “Did you . . . did you hear something a moment ago?”
“Something other than my son stomping up the path like a runaway carriage? No, why?” But Tren glanced in the direction of the stables, his eyes narrow.
“I thought I heard someone scream,” Rae said. “Down by the stables.”
“Well, it was probably nothing. A frightened horse or something. Beasts have a sense of the weather. The front probably has them spooked.” Tren patted Rae on the head. “Best forget about it.”
“So I’m right? About the storm?” Rae asked.
“Something is brewing, yes. A big one, if even you can feel it.” Tren wiped his glasses clean on his robe, then squinted at the horizon. A veil of dark clouds had formed and was rapidly rushing toward the estate. “Terrible timing. Or perfect . . .” He looked down at the papers in his hands, then shuffled them together and stowed them in a leather satchel at his waist. “You should go back to the house. Make sure Mother gets the shutters closed.”
“She has La to help her.” Rae folded his arms and stuck out his lip. “And maybe you’ll need my help.”
“Well, you can stay for a bit, but if things get dicey I want you in the tower. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Alright, then.” Tren gently set his glasses on his face. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with, shall we?”
Tren extended his hand as though reaching for something. Coiling fog rose from his palm and swirled outward in a tight cylinder. The mists slowly coalesced into a short sword with a wavy, iridescent blade, and a silver hilt rimed with sparkling frost. The elemental bound to Tren’s soul originated in a blizzard, and had strong ties to the realms of water and storm. The spiritblade was a conduit that opened the door between realms, protecting the spiritbinder’s soul while also allowing him to call on the zephyr and bend it to his will. With a deep breath, he gripped the spiritblade and gestured with his off hand.
The zephyr swirled around the stormbinder’s shoulders, emerging from his soul and shrouding him in a frost-tinged maelstrom. Tren’s robes swirled as the elemental buffeted him. His glasses fogged up, but Tren’s eyes glowed with a piercing blue light.
The strands of Rae’s soul sang in harmony with the drawn spirit. His father had been tutoring him for over a year in the spiritbinder’s art, but it was all he could do to sense the weave and weft of Tren’s soul and the zephyr, inextricably bound together. He could tell Tren was reaching out to the distant storm, probing its depths. Tren’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s troubling.” He reeled the zephyr back, until it was nothing more than a frosty mist clinging to his shoulders. “Rae, I need you to go home. Now.”
“But—”
The storm churned closer, the black teeth of the squall line chewing through the forests that surrounded Hadroy House. On the far edge of the manor house, the jagged splinter of the huntsman’s tower poked into the air, like a spear arrayed against the darkness. Lightning flashed across the tree line, and the thunder that followed hammered Rae’s lungs. Tren gestured hurriedly, drawing more of his zephyr into the material plane. He hovered off the ground, his face creased in concentration.
“Dad?” Rae fell back toward the shelter of the tower. He had watched his father bind dozens of storms, but never falter. “Dad?” he tried again.
“Something in there. Something not . . . normal. It can’t be a coincidence.” Tren rose higher into the air. His elemental roared around him, but the sound was nearly drowned out by the approaching front. In the manor below, people were rushing back and forth, securing shutters and gathering children. A sudden wind blew through the alleyways and lanes, knocking over potted plants and sending a cloud of loose dirt howling between the buildings. The grass on the hill flattened, and Rae’s coat billowed like a sail, knocking him backward. He went to one knee, squinting into the storm and shielding his face with the crook of his arm.
The sky overhead was pitch black and roiling with lightning-splintered clouds. Purple light flickered at the heart of the storm, and a deep malevolence thrummed in the wind, snagging at Rae’s soul. It was like nothing he had ever seen.
A skittering roar from overhead drew Rae’s attention. He and his father both turned to search for the source of the noise.
A damaged windship emerged from the cloud bank, its hull brushing the trees at the top of the hill. The twin air elementals bound to its engines growled and crackled in their bonds, barely contained. The windship’s portside sail hung limp from the forecastle, and the whole vessel listed to that side. Crewmen dangled from the rigging, desperately gathering rope and trimming sail. The crippled vessel skirted the squall line before turning hard toward the forests beyond the huntsman’s tower. It disappeared behind the trees.
“Rae! Get home and help your mother!” Tren shouted over his shoulder. “It’s not safe here!” Then he rose even higher into the sky, weaving the elemental forces at his command. The storm greeted him with cacophonous thunder and howling wind. Rae glanced at the open door of the stone tower, then took off down the hill at a full sprint. The rain started before he reached the bottom. He was soaked through in three steps.
There was no time to take the long way around. Rae ran straight through the encampment. Soldiers were boiling out of their tents, grabbing muskets and forming into lines. This surprised Rae, considering the weather, but just as he reached the edge of the field he heard a crackle of thunder.
No, not thunder. Musket shot. He skidded to a halt and looked back.
From the forest near where the windship must have gone down emerged a small group of armed men. They wore the cream and crimson of the Iron College, and deployed in a loose skirmish line, bayonets fixed. The baron’s men were forming up into firing lines, spurred on by shouting sergeants despite the storm. A few shots rang out, but the main action had yet to begin. For every College man, the baron must have had twenty muskets.
The Hadroy line fired, filling the air with gray smoke and lead. Wind and rain tore at the clouds. As it cleared, Rae expected to see carnage among the Collegians. Instead he saw a wall of shimmering light that shielded the cream-and-crimson skirmishers. Beyond it, the distinctive shape of a lawbinder, his golden sword raised high, angelic wings fluttering around his shoulders. Another dozen spiritbinders spread out behind him, manifesting various powers of the eight-fold path. Golems lifted stony fists, while a deathbinder floated on ephemeral wings, his hands and face twisted into grim, skeletal mockeries of life. They all wore the uniforms of the justicars.
“What are they doing here?” Rae whispered.
The justicars were the enforcers of the Iron College, responsible for protecting the balance of Order and Chaos in the world. They were absolute in their justice, and a terror in their execution.
Worse, when they came for a spiritbinder, it was to claim his soul.
The justicars emerged from the cloud of gunsmoke. They wore cream and silver, trimmed with precious metals to match their bound plane, kilts and tight coats, some with high collars that covered the lower half of their faces. Their spiritblades were as many and varied as imaginable: short daggers forged of moonlight, butcher’s blades of chipped stone, bludgeons of wood and molten gold, long swords held together by shimmering light, and monstrous blades of rough-formed chain, barbed and cruel. They rose over the battlefield, trailing streamers of golden light.
Hadroy’s men broke and ran. Rae turned and ran as well, the sound of dying men and roaring spirits in his ears, and the storm raging overhead.
There were soldiers in the street outside Rae’s home. They wore the crimson and cream of the Iron College houseguard, the non-magical arm of the justicars. Rae watched from the front windows as they marched down the street, splashing through the puddles left behind by the torrential rainfall. The storm had stopped shortly after Rae got home, cutting off like a curtain drawn back from a stage. Father’s work, no doubt.
That windship Rae saw crashing must have been some kind of military vessel. But if they crashed, why did they immediately attack the baron’s men? Or did they crash? Was it all some kind of trick? But why? Why were the justicars here at all? Rae pulled the curtains back further, until Mother pulled him deeper into the house and closed the shutters. La sat quietly by the fireplace, clutching a doll to her chest. The tears on her cheeks were almost dry.
“Why are the justicars here?” Rae asked nervously. The justicars only came for heretics and diabolists. Worse, they always came for mages, to sear their souls and break their spirits. In the stories, the justicars bravely patrolled the orderwall that kept the world safe from Chaos. They didn’t belong in the peaceful grounds of Hadroy House. “Are they coming for father?”
“They are not here for your father,” Mom said sternly.
“But Dad always says that the justicars only care about bad spiritbinders. Dad’s not a bad spiritbinder, is he?”
“Be quiet. You’ll upset your sister.” Rae’s mother wiped La’s face. Her tone was calm, but Rae could see the tension in her eyes. “There are other mages here, dear boy. Men and women your father has nothing to do with. None of our business.”
“But if—”
“None of our business,” mother repeated.
Rae fiddled with his hands. She meant tall, lean Yveth, and dark, silent Rassek. Rae had seen other men and women in strange clothes around the manor recently, mostly in the vicinity of the huntsman’s tower. Were they spiritbinders? He couldn’t help but worry. Maybe the justicars were there for someone else, but that didn’t mean his dad wouldn’t get caught up in it. There were rumors about the justicars: that they got a little zealous in their prosecution of holy Order, that they cared less about the innocents they swept up in their searches as long as they got their quarry. Dad always said it was best to avoid their attention. Hard to do when they were crawling through the estate like lice on a dog.
The door boomed open, and Tren Kelthannis rushed in. Father’s clothes were a mess, the fine linen of his shirt smudged with dirt and ash, the knees of his pants torn. His spectacles hung crooked on his face. He clutched a bundle of burlap to his chest, as well as the satchel of loose papers from earlier. Tren’s eyes were wild. He kicked the door closed behind him, then collapsed against it. He was breathing hard, like he’d just run the length of the estate with a hound on his heels. Tren’s gaze darted around the room.
“Have they been here?” he asked. “The justicars! Have they been here yet!”
“Some houseguard went by the house, but . . . no, no one has been here,” Mother said. “Tren, what’s going on?”
“He’s one of them. Yveth has been a justicar this entire time. I tried to take my findings to one of the officers, but . . .” Tren trailed off, his eyes falling on the children. He swept through the room, heading for the hallway that led to his study. “Start packing. No! Never mind, there’s no time! We have to go. We have to leave immediately!”
“Leave? We can’t just leave.” Mother followed him to the hallway, her hands to her heart. “Tren Kelthannis, you explain what’s going on this minute!”
“Inferno sear me if I know.” Tren’s voice was muffled by distance and distraction. “But I’m not staying around to find out. Some clothes, some money . . . that fan of yours! That will sell. And I will need my ink set.”
Rae realized he hadn’t moved from his spot since Father’s return. La stared at Mother, her wide eyes wet with new tears. She started bawling. Mother tutted and picked her up, though La was just old enough to be a burden on the hip.
“You’re scaring the children, Tren. And you’re scaring me. Where’s the baron?”
“Baron Hadroy is dead,” Father said, returning to the main room. He dumped the burlap package on the table, along with a collection of ink bottles, a pen set, and about a dozen books. He had a leather satchel on his shoulder. The burlap of the package was spotted with fresh blood. As Tren dropped his burden, the corner of the burlap came undone, revealing the hilt of a sword. The whole thing—pommel, grip, and guard—looked like murky ice, shot through with cracks and swimming with shadows in its depths. Tren quickly covered the sword, then started to arrange the books. “Levan’s Explorations. The Rassea. Two volumes of— There’s no way I can carry all of this.” He turned on his wife. “Margret, why are you just standing there? The children will need clothes, and we should take enough food for a few days on the road. Your jewelry perhaps . . . nothing distinctive, though. Nothing that will tie us to the Hadroys. Do you think—”
“I’m not moving an inch until you explain what the hell is going on!” Mother said. The force of her voice and the unexpected profanity snapped Rae’s head back. Mother yelled, but she never swore.
Tren swallowed hard, then set down the books he’d been juggling and took Margret by the elbows.
“Mar, love, listen to me. That was no natural storm. That man, the one the baron has been working with . . . Rassek Brant . . . he summoned that storm to power some kind of ritual. And now the justicars are swarming around, and one of them killed the baron. Cut him down without so much as a trial—”
“But . . . but why?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” Tren’s eyes went to the burlap package. “It was that tall one, Yveth. He’s been a spy the whole time. A justicar, in our midst.”
Mother glanced at the bloody cloth on her dining table and flinched back. “And what is this? That’s not yours. It’s covered in blood.”
“I think it belonged to Rassek. I found it . . .” His eyes wandered to Rae. “I found it among the stables.”
“The scream?” Rae took a step back. “Did he kill someone?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Please, we just need—”
“Tren, you get that horrible thing out of this house this instant!” Mother shouted. “I won’t have it! I won’t!”
“You must understand, Margret. We don’t have time to discuss this.” Tren swung the empty leather satchel onto the floor and started dumping in books. “The justicars are going to come for that sword. I don’t intend to be here when they do.”
“Why would we run from the justicars?” Mother asked. “What are you hiding from me?”
Again, Tren glanced at the children. “Later,” he said sternly. “For now, we must run.”
Margret stood still for a few heartbeats. Then she drew her shoulders up, straightened her back, and clearly made a decision.
“Rae, get your schoolbag. Two pairs of pants, three shirts, and a jacket. The green one. And a better pair of shoes. Then you will need to help me with your sister.”
“But Mom—”
“You heard your father, Raelle. We’re going. Now.” With that, Margret Kelthannis swept down the hall. Rae stood there, blinking at his father. A lump was forcing its way up his throat.
Tren stacked his books in the satchel, then carefully placed the wrapped sword between them and covered it with more books and a sheaf of bound pages. The inkpots and pen set went in another compartment. Rae’s father hummed quietly to himself while he worked, his attention lost in the precision of packing as efficiently as possible. When he looked up, Rae still hadn’t moved. Tren smiled.
“It’s going to be okay, son. Just a change of scenery, new friends. There are plenty of places in the Ordered World that need a good stormbinder.” His smile faltered, and a cloud passed over his features. “Though I suppose the justicars might come looking for me. Might have to . . . do something else. Anyway”—he smiled again, though it was just a show—“we’ll figure it out. You’re always reading those adventure stories. We’re having an adventure!”
Rae swallowed against the lump in his throat, then ran after his mom. He wasn’t going to cry. At least, not in front of his dad.
They watched from the tree line as soldiers rounded up their neighbors and escorted them deeper into the estate. Only minutes had passed since Father had burst through the door, but already their cozy little neighborhood was deserted. Yveth Maelys, now wearing a justicar’s badge framed by the stormbinder’s sigil, arrived at the head of a column of soldiers and went into the Kelthannis household, only to emerge minutes later empty-handed. By the sound of crashing drawers and breaking glass, the guardsmen had turned the home inside out. Once they were gone, Tren led his family deeper into the woods that surrounded the only home Rae had ever known.
They traveled for nearly ten minutes before Rae dared to speak. They saw no one else. A family of deer watched them curiously from a distance, probably the same deer that sometimes stole from their mother’s garden. The beasts had no natural predators, and had long since been adopted as mascots by the servants, but Mother still hated them. These forests had once been part of the barony’s hunting grounds, but the constant pressure of projected Order that emanated from Fulcrum had long since driven out most of the wildlife. Their feet fell on hard-packed earth and fallen autumn leaves.
“Do you think they were looking for that sword?” Rae whispered to his father. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering. La crashed along beside Mother, her young feet too tired to be quiet, and Mother too scared to hush her child. Tren kept his eyes straight ahead, knuckles white around the blood-spattered burlap.
“I don’t know. And I don’t think I’ll be going back to ask,” Tren answered. “Lalette, my sweet, do you think you could walk a little more quietly? For your father?”
La made a farting sound with her mouth, which was offense enough to earn her a hard jerk of the arm from Mother. The poor girl tried to sit down in protest, forcing Margret to hoist her back on her hip. Tren ignored all of this.
“There must be guards somewhere. If they’ve put this much effort into rounding everyone up, surely there will be guards. I—”
Suddenly, he stopped and let out a sharp breath. Rae slid to a halt next to his father, eyes wide, holding out the tiny folding knife he’d gotten for his birthday as though it were a sword. Mother squeezed La so tight that she squeaked.
“What is it? Order, Tren, you’ll give me my death of fright. What did you see?”
“There’s a barrier around here somewhere. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it an orderwall. But we’re miles from Hadroy Steading’s border,” Tren said. The orderwalls had been erected by the justicars of the Iron College to prevent the incursion of Chaos, centuries earlier. Every steading had one, though this close to Fulcrum they were unnecessary. Tren pressed forward, hand outstretched, as though he were feeling his way through a dark room. “Ah, here it is. It certainly feels like an orderwall. But without any kind of manifestation. How odd. Raelle, my boy, do you see any wards or anything?”
Rae and his father looked about. They were near the top of a stony ridgeline. The trees here were sparse, and plenty of rocks poked up through the underbrush. Rae had visited Felkin Steading on a trip south, and seen the crackling barrier of its orderwall. It had looked like a fence made of frozen lightning, the bolts anchored by long metal spars. There was nothing like that here. Just rocks, and trees, and a growing sense of dread.
“Ah, here it is,” Tren said happily. He kicked aside a rock to reveal a tangle of runes cut into an iron plate set into the ground. Rae tried to read the runes, but that was too much like schoolwork. Tren hummed to himself. “A hidden orderwall. Very interesting. I wonder—”
“Tren Kelthannis, if you will please stop screwing around!” Margret said. “This is not some scientific excursion.”
“Yes, yes, sorry,” Tren said. He replaced the rock and then led his family up the last few yards of gentle slope, to the ridgeline. He stood at the highest point, looking around. “I’ll need a minute to orient myself. Feels like we should be able to see the Maerveling road from here, doesn’t it? Did we go south? Or was it east?”
Margret sat primly on one of the stones, dusting it off before settling in place. La sat in her lap, fat fingers shoved into her mouth, her wide eyes blinking slowly. Rae couldn’t sit. He was too nervous. And he didn’t like stopping on the ridgeline. Looking back in the direction they had come, Rae could see the manor house, the huntsman’s tower, and the formal gardens. There was something wrong with the tower. It looked like a cake that someone had taken a greedy bite out of, and there was a plume of smoke rising from that direction. The billowing masts of the grounded windship poked above the tree line. It didn’t look like a wreck, that’s for sure.
“Well, whichever direction you’re taking us, you need to make up your mind,” Margret said. “Because these shoes aren’t going to take much more of this nonsense.”
“I told you to bring boots, my dear,” Tren said absently.
“I have boots. They’re in the bag. But if we’d been seen sneaking out of the house, there aren’t a lot of excuses I could have come up with for wearing boots, now are there?”
“Family excursion,” Tren said, blinking at the far horizon. “Mushroom hunting with the children. Lots of perfectly good lies.”
“Father?” Rae said. When Tren didn’t respond, Rae tugged at his coat, then pointed at the manor house. “What are those?”
Three domes of shimmering light sprouted in the direction of the tower, and a fourth, closer to the servant housing. They were large, nearly as tall as the tower.
“Hm? Shields? Must be lawbinders down there. But why are they—”
Stark black light shot up from the tower, cutting the sky in two. It hung silent in the air for a heartbeat before expanding outward. It rushed over the landscape like a tidal wave, blotting out the tower, the manor house, even swallowing the glittering domes in its inky blackness. That’s when the sound of it hit them. A roar, like mountains shattering, a hammerblow that Rae felt in his bones.
Tren turned and ran. Margret screamed and rolled to the ground, covering Lalette with her arms. But Rae was transfixed. He stared in horror as that black tide washed over the trees, straight at him. The darkness eclipsed everything it touched, growling as it came. The sun went dark, and the sky. Rae shivered at the sight of it.
Hell slammed against the hidden orderwall and stopped. Just ten feet below where they were standing, the darkness halted, frozen in place by the sudden barrier. Lightning crawled through the air, and strands of shredded air swirled against the black sky. Wind, pushed out by the destruction like a tsunami, battered Rae and finally uprooted him, throwing him to the ground. Clouds formed against the orderwall, condensing and churning, crackling with lightning. The sky directly above, spared from whatever breach in the Ordered World had claimed Hadroy House, transformed into a squall line.
“Rae! Raelle!” his father shouted. Shielding his face against the sudden wind, Tren stumbled to Rae’s side, dragging him to his feet. “We have to keep going! Breach like that, it’ll turn this place to a hellscape! Keep moving!”
Numb, Rae stumbled down the opposite slope. His parents half-slid, half-fell at his side, their clothes tattered. Lalette screamed at the top of her lungs, but Rae could barely hear it over the wind, and the thunder, and the growling churn of the orderwall.
It started to rain, heavy and hot, the water nearly hot enough to boil. Rae kept running.