Psalms of Isaak 01 – Lamentation

Even without the magicks, the voice was compelling. Neb shuffled forward. He looked around the room as he went. It looked like there was a back entrance-much smaller, certainly too small for the Marsh King, and shrouded with a heavy curtain hastily staked into the ceiling. There were scattered reed mats and piles of ratty blankets.

Neb wasn’t sure what to do next, so he erred on the side of caution and lowered himself to his knees. “I

am here, Lord.”

Again, the Marsh King stared down at him and then looked away to the idol. “I will preach about you tonight,” the Marsh King said. “I will call you the dreaming boy because I have seen you in my dreams.” He looked to the idol, nodding slowly. “Now is set into motion the time of judgment, and the unloved children of P’Andro Whym will be the firstborn of the new gods.” Neb looked at the idol himself but saw nothing there but an old metal god. The Marsh King leaned down. “Do you understand any of this?”

Neb shook his head. “I do not.”

Another glance to the idol, head cocked to hear, then the deep voice continued slowly. “Do you understand what it means to be the reluctant prophet of Xhum Y’Zir? Because someday, you will be.”

“I do not understand, Lord,” Neb said. But the words, when they washed through him, left him shaken. He’d studied the fundamentals of the mystic heresies and he understood the straying from Androfrancine truth. His own dream of Hebda, dead and speaking with him as if he weren’t, was powerful regardless of whether or not it was real. Who wouldn’t listen to the ghost of their dead father?

But the Francines were clear: The ghost was just an aspect of himself, working out problems in his sleep. Except for the part where those dreams came true, the Marsh King and his army perfect proof of that. “How is it that you invade my sleep, Dreaming Boy? What are the things that you show me?” The Marsh

King waited, glancing quickly to the idol. “Who is this resurrected Pope that will avenge the light by

killing it?”

The fear worked its way into his stomach and it lurched. He knew about Petronus somehow. His hand wanted to go to the pocket now and check it again, make sure it was still there. But he didn’t. “I do not know, Lord,” he said again.

The Marsh King roared and leaped to his feet, moving past Neb quickly and moving to the tent flaps. “I will speak with you in the morning.” Neb watched him draw a large silver drinking horn and hold it to his lips. When he brought it down his face was covered in what looked like blood, and his satisfied sigh shook the walls of the tent.

The Marsh King strode into the night, his War Sermon booming out, a storm of words that could be heard as far as twenty leagues away.

Neb was still watching him when the girl approached. He jumped when she touched his shoulder and he turned. The curtain still swayed where she came from. “He will be all night,” the Marsh girl said.

“He’s preaching about me,” Neb said.

She nodded. “He is. The dreams were very powerful.” “What do they mean?”

She laughed. “If I knew what they meant, why would the Marsh King summon you?”

Neb looked at her. She didn’t look as dirty as he’d thought she did. Or maybe it was the light. Her large brown eyes crinkled at the edges, as if she laughed a lot. But there were deep places there that suggested she cried a lot, too. When she smiled, her teeth were straight and white.

“Maybe they don’t mean anything,” Neb said.

She shook her head. “It is unlikely. Most dreams mean something.” She sighed. “But I hope you’re right.”

Neb saw that the thought of it relieved her. “Why do you hope I’m right?” he asked.

She looked to the idol herself for a moment, then back to Neb. “Because the dreams said that many would go to their second death in the fire for the Androfrancine sin.” She shuddered as she said the words.

“And I had something to do with it?” Neb asked, his voice suddenly small.

Neb woke up to a hand on his shoulder and sat up quickly. Winters crouched near him, dressed in a burlap dress that clung to her emerging curves. This close, she smelled of earth and smoke and sweat.

“I brought you breakfast,” she said, pointing to a chipped bowl set at a small table. Neb rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You’re not eating?”

She shook her head. “I fast today. The world is changing.”

He kicked himself out of the blankets and stood. She stood, too. “Is the Marsh King back?” “Soon,” she said. “Eat first.”

He went to the table and sat on the rickety wooden stool that waited for him there. The bowl was filled with boiled oats that still steamed, and the smell of buttermilk, honey and dried apples made his stomach growl. Near the bowl was a plate holding an assortment of roasted chestnuts, a chunk of bread and a bit of white, strong-smelling cheese.

Winters sat across from him, watching as he ate the food and washed it down with cold water from a metal cup.

“There was a parley this morning,” she said. “All of the lords attended, including Lord Tam of House Li

Tam.”

“Did the Marsh King go?”