Children of the Nameless Read online

  Children of The Nameless

  By Brandon Sanderson

  CHILDREN OF THE NAMELESS

  ©2018 Wizards of the Coast LLC. Wizards of the Coast, Magic: The Gathering, their respective logos, Magic, and characters’ names and distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the USA and other countries. All rights reserved. All other tradmarks are the property of their respective owners.

  www.MagicTheGathering.com

  Written by Brandon Sanderson

  Cover art by Chris Rahn

  The stories, characters, and incidents mentioned in this publication are entirely fictional.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  First Printing: December 2018

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  Part One

  Prologue

  There were two kinds of darkness, and Tacenda feared the second far more than the first.

  The first darkness was a common darkness. The darkness of shadows, where light strained to reach. The darkness of a closet door, cracked open, or of the old shed near the forest. This first darkness was the darkness of dusk, which seeped into homes as night arrived like an unwelcome visitor you had no choice but to let in.

  The first darkness had its dangers, particularly in this land where shadows breathed and dark things howled at night. But it was the second darkness—the one that came upon Tacenda each morning—that she truly feared. Her blindness was tied directly to the rising of the sun; as its first light appeared, her sight would fade away. The second darkness would then claim her: a pure, inescapable blackness. Despite the reassurances of parents and priests alike, she knew that something terrible watched her from that darkness.

  Her twin sister, Willia, understood. Willia’s curse was the inverse of Tacenda’s—Willia had sight during the day but was claimed by the second darkness each night. There was never a time when both of them could see. And so, though twins, the girls were never able to look one another in the eyes.

  As she grew, Tacenda tried to banish her fear of this second darkness by learning to play music. She told herself that at least she could still hear. Indeed, while blind, she felt that she could better hear the natural music of the land. The crunch of pebbles beneath a footstep. The vibrant trembles of laughter when a child passed by her seat at the center of town. At times, Tacenda even felt she could hear the stretching of ancient trees as they grew—a sound like the twisting of a rope—accompanied by the gentle sigh of their settling leaves.

  She did wish she could see the sun, even once. A giant, blazing, burning ball of fire in the sky, brighter even than the moon? She could feel its intense heat on her skin, so knew it was real, but what must it be like for everyone else to go about their lives, seeing that incredible bonfire in the sky bearing down on them?

  The people of the village learned of the girls’ inverse curses and noted them as marked. It was the Bog’s touch upon them, the people whispered. A good thing: it meant the twin girls had been claimed, blessed.

  Tacenda had trouble feeling it was a blessing until that first day when she found her true song. While still a child, the people of the village bought her drums from a traveling merchant, so she could sing to them while they worked the dustwillow fields. They said the darkness among the trees seemed to retreat when she sang, and they claimed the sun shone brighter. On one of those days, Tacenda discovered a power within her—and began to sing a beautiful, warming song of joy. Somehow, she knew it had come from the Bog. A gift along with her curse of blindness.

  Willia whispered that she too felt a power inside her. A strange, awesome strength. When she fought with the sword—though only twelve years old—she could match even Barl, the smith.

  Willia was always the fierce one. At least during the daylight hours. At night, when the second darkness took her, she trembled with a fear that Tacenda knew intimately. During those long nights, Tacenda sang to her sister, a girl who was terrified—against reason—that this time, the light would not return to her.

  It was one such night, soon after their thirteenth birthdays, that Tacenda discovered another song. It came to her as a thing from the forest clawed at the door, howling and raving. Beasts sometimes came from the forest at night, breaking into homes, taking those who dwelled inside. It was the price of living out in the Approaches; the land demanded a tax upon one’s blood. There was little to do but bar your door and pray to either the Bog or the Angel—depending upon your preference—for deliverance.

  But on that night—listening to her sister panic and her parents weep—Tacenda had stepped toward the beast as it broke in. She’d heard music in the cracking and splintering door, in the breeze rattling the trees, in her own heartbeat as it thundered in her ears. She opened her mouth and sang something new. A song that made the beast scream in pain, and withdraw. A song of defiance, a song of warding, a song of protection.

  The next night, the village asked her to sing her song into the darkness. Her music seemed to still the woods. From that day forward, nothing came from the forest. The village, once the smallest of the three in the Approaches, began to swell as people heard of its twin protectors: the fierce warrior who trained during the day, and the quiet songstress who calmed the night.

  For two years, the village knew a remarkable peace. No people taken during the night. No beasts howling to the moon. The Bog had sent guardians to shelter its people. Nobody even took much notice when a new lord, who called himself the Man of the Manor, arrived to displace the old one. The squabbles among lords were not for the common people to question. Indeed, this new Man of the Manor seemed to keep to himself—an improvement upon the old lord. So they’d thought.

  But then, just after the twins turned fifteen, everything went wrong.

  Chapter One: Tacenda

  The Whisperers arrived just before dusk, and Tacenda’s song was not enough to stop them.

  She screamed the refrain of the Warding Song, sliding her hands across the strings of her viol—a gift from her parents at her fourteenth birthday.

  Her parents were both gone now, killed ten days earlier by the strange creatures that now assaulted the village. Tacenda had barely recovered from that grief when they’d taken Willia too. Now, they’d come for the entire village.

  Since the sun had not yet set, she couldn’t see them, but she could hear their quiet overlapping voices as they flowed around her seat. They spoke in raspy tones—soft, the words indistinguishable—like an underchant to her song.

  She redoubled her efforts, plucking her viol with raw fingers, sitting in her usual spot at the center of the village, by the gurgling cistern. The song should have been enough. For two years, it had stopped every terror and horror. The Whisperers, however, sounded indifferent as they flowed around Tacenda. And soon, human screams of terror rose as a horrible chorus around her.

  Tacenda tried to sing louder, but her voice was growing hoarse. She coughed at her next breath. She gasped, trembling, struggling to—

  Something cold brushed her. The pain in her fingers grew numb, and she gasped, leaping back, clutching her viol to her breast. All was black around her, but she could hear the thing nearby, a thousand w
hispers overlapping, like riffling pages, each as hush as a dying breath.

  Then it moved off, ignoring her. The rest of the villagers were not so lucky. They had locked themselves in their homes—where now they shouted, prayed, and pled...until one by one, they started to go silent.

  “Tacenda!” a voice shouted nearby. “Tacenda! Help!”

  “Mirian?” Tacenda’s voice came out as a ragged croak. Which direction had that sound come from? Tacenda spun in the darkness, kicking over her stool with a clatter.

  “Tacenda!”

  There! Tacenda carefully ran her foot along the side of the cistern to feel its carved stones and orient herself, then struck out into the darkness. She knew this area well, and it had been years since she’d stumbled when crossing the village square. But still, she could not avoid that spike of fear she felt in stepping forward. Out, into that darkness that still terrified her.

  This time, would she walk into the void, and never return? Would she continue to stumble in a vast, unknowable blackness, lost to all natural feeling and touch?

  Instead, she reached the wall of a home, right where she’d anticipated. She felt with raw fingers, touching the windowsill, feeling Mirian’s potted herbs in a row, one of which—in her haste—she accidentally knocked off. It shattered on the cobbles.

  “Mirian!” Tacenda yelled, feeling her way across the wall. Other screams still sounded in the village—some people crying for help, others shouting in a panic. Together the sounds were a tempest, but each seemed so alone.

  “Mirian?” Tacenda said. “Why is your door open? Mirian!”

  Tacenda felt her way into the small home, then stumbled over a body. Tears wetting her cheeks, Tacenda knelt, still holding her viol in one hand. With the other, she felt at the lace skirt—embroidered by Mirian’s own hand, during the evenings when she sometimes stayed up to keep Tacenda company. She moved her hand to the woman’s face.

  Mirian had brought Tacenda tea not an hour ago. And now...her skin had already gone cold somehow, her body rigid.

  Tacenda dropped her viol and pushed away, slamming back against the wall, knocking something over. The fallen item cracked as it hit the ground, an almost musical sound.

  Outside, the last screams were giving out.

  “Take me!” Tacenda shouted, feeling her way around the door. She scraped her arm on a sharp corner, tearing her skirt, blooding her forearm. “Take me, like you did my family!” She stumbled out into the main square again, and as more of the shouting and panic trailed off, she picked out a quieter voice. A child’s voice.

  “Ahren?” She shouted. “Is that you?”

  No. Bog, hear my prayer. Please...

  “Ahren!” Tacenda followed the small, panicked screaming to another building. The door was locked, but that didn’t seem to stop the Whisperers. They were spirits or geists of some sort.

  Tacenda felt her way to the window, where she heard a small hand pounding on the glass. “Ahren...” Tacenda said, resting her own palm against the glass. A coldness brushed past her.

  “Tacenda!” the little boy screamed, voice muffled. “Please! It’s coming!”

  She drew in breath, and tried—through her sobs—to force out a song. But the Warding Song wasn’t working. Maybe...maybe something else?

  “Simple...simple days of warming sun...” she began, trying her old song. The joyful one she’d sung to her sister, and the people of the village, when she’d been a child. “And light that calms and will not run...”

  She found the words dying on her lips. How could she sing about a warm sun she could no longer see? How could she try to calm, to bring joy, when people were dying all around her?

  That song...she no longer remembered that song.

  Ahren’s crying stopped as a muted thump sounded inside the building. Outside, the final screams died off. And the village grew silent.

  Tacenda shrank back from the window, and then behind her, she heard footsteps.

  Footsteps. The Whisperers made no such sound.

  She spun toward the footsteps, and heard the rustling cloth of someone nearby, watching her.

  “I hear you!” Tacenda screamed at the unseen figure. “Man of the Manor! I hear your footsteps!”

  She heard breathing. The sounds, even, of the Whisperers faded away. But whoever was there, watching, remained still.

  “Take me!” Tacenda screamed at the second darkness. “Be done with it!”

  The footsteps, instead, retreated. A cold, lonely breeze blew through the village. Tacenda felt the last rays of sunlight give out, the air chilling. As night fell, Tacenda’s vision returned. She blinked as the blackness retreated to mere shadows, the sky still faintly warm from the sun’s recent passing. Like the embers that clung—briefly—to a wick after the fire went out.

  Tacenda found herself standing near the cistern, her face a mess of tears and tangled brown hair. Her precious viol lay, wood finish scratched, just inside the door to Mirian’s house.

  The village was silent. Empty save for Tacenda and corpses.

  Chapter Two: Tacenda

  Tacenda spent about half an hour breaking into homes, searching in vain for survivors. Even those families who had fled to the church had fallen. She confronted corpse after corpse, the light gone from their eyes and the warmth stolen from their blood.

  Her parents had suffered the same fate, ten days before. They, along with Willia, had been on their way to deliver offerings to the Bog. The Man of the Manor had intercepted them and attacked, his reasons unfathomable. He’d overpowered Willia, who—despite her uncommon strength—had been no match for his terrible magic.

  Willia had escaped and run to the priory for help. When she’d returned with church soldiers, they’d found only two corpses. Her parents, their bodies already cold. That night also, the Whisperers had first appeared—strange, twisted geists who killed those who strayed from the villages. Witnesses swore they worked under the direction of the Man of the Manor.

  Even then, Tacenda had hoped for deliverance. Hoped the Bog would protect them. Until the Man of the Manor had finally come for Willia, killing her. And now...

  And now...

  Tacenda slumped on the Weamer family’s doorstep, head in her hands, lit by aloof moonlight. The priests and Willia had wanted to give her parents a church burial, but Tacenda had insisted that their bodies be returned to the Bog. Priests could teach of the angels all they wanted, but most Approachers knew that they belonged—ultimately—to the Bog.

  But...who would return all these corpses to the Bog? The entire village?

  Suddenly, it seemed the eyes of all those corpses were watching her. With an aching hand, Tacenda felt at her sister’s pendant, which she wore around her wrist. The simple leather cord bore an iron icon of the Nameless Angel. It, and her viol, were the only important things left in her life. So there was no reason to remain here beneath those watchful, dead eyes.

  Feeling numb, Tacenda took up her viol and just started walking. She wandered out of the town, past the dustwillow field where Willia’s corpse had been found. On that day...well, a piece of Tacenda had gone cold. Perhaps that was why, now that it was done, she found herself too tired for tears.

  She walked out into the dark forest, a place where no sane person went. To travel the forest at night was to demand mishap, to invite getting lost, or open yourself to the fangs of some lurking beast. But why would that matter to her now? Her life was meaningless, and she couldn’t get lost if she wasn’t planning to ever return.

  Still...when she closed her eyes, she could sense where the darkness was more pure. Almost it had the feeling of that second darkness that she feared. A few years ago, she’d met a blind girl from the township, visiting with merchants. Willia had been so excited to speak to someone else who might understand the Second Darkness—but this girl had reacted with confusion to their descriptions. S
he didn’t fear the darkness, and couldn’t understand why they would.

  It was then that Tacenda had truly begun to understand. The thing they saw when the curse took them was something deeper, stranger. Something more than just blindness.

  She went toward the darkness, her skirt catching on underbrush, passing trees so ancient she’d have surely lost track counting the rings. On many a night, these trees had been Tacenda’s only audience, the wind in their leaves her applause. The rest of the village had slept the fitful, uncertain sleep of a lamp with too little oil. If you woke up gasping for breath, at least you had woken up alive.

  The endless canopy—pierced here and there by steel moonlight—seemed to be the sky itself. Held up by the dark columns of trees, extending into infinity, like reflections of reflections. She walked a good half hour, but nothing came for her. Perhaps the monsters of the forest were simply too stunned see a lone girl of fifteen wandering at night.

  Soon, she could smell the Bog: rot, moss, and stagnant things. It had no name, but the villagers all knew that it claimed them. The Bog was their protection, because even the things that terrorized in the dark reaches of the forest—even nightmares made incarnate—even they feared the Bog.

  And yet, it failed us tonight.

  Tacenda emerged into a small clearing. She knew the Bog’s sound as she knew her own heartbeat—a low rumbling, like that of a boiling pot, punctuated by the occasional snap, reminiscent of a breaking bone. She’d come many times with her parents, bringing offerings—but for all that, she’d never been to it during the night.

  It was...smaller than she had imagined. A perfectly circular pool, filled with dark water. Though the ground in this region of the forest was pitted with mires and treacherous swamps, this specific pool had always been known as “the Bog” to her people.

  Tacenda stepped right up to the edge, remembering the soft sound—not quite a splash, more a sigh—her parents’ bodies had made when they’d been slid into the water. You didn’t need to weigh bodies down when feeding them to the Bog. Corpses sank in and did not return.