Embers of a Broken Throne (12 page)

“And what if they die?” Quintess hugged her arms.

Cantor shrugged. “Then it’s the end.”

Irmina’s mind was still whirling. And then it stopped. “Quintess, you mentioned something about Ancel’s siblings. What do you know of them?”

“They were supposed to be dead, killed by the Shadowbearer, but the Nine made it seem as if they were not.”

Grunting at the distant possibility, the audacity of it, Irmina said, “If they live, then they are Eztezians also.”

“Should we seek out the truth?” Quintess asked.

“No. I would think it best they remain hidden if they’re alive.” Cantor stroked his chin. “The way Jerem plots, they could be crucial to some plan he hasn’t shared. I think our best course, our only course, is to rely on him, Ryne, and Ancel. And that means my Pathfinders and I must ensure Ancel lives as is our mandate. I would say to allow Stefan to continue to lead us, but keep an eye on his condition.”

Irmina agreed. At least for the moment. “Well, then we deal with the issues we can, which is why I summoned you.” Mind still working, she regarded Cantor. “I need you to pass out a list of the Matii your Pathfinders brought here over the years. Give it to the Dagodins. Have them gather those people up. Quintess, you do the same with the Shins and heads of the Mysteras to discover the families that had their loved ones taken. Reuniting them should solve some of the tension here.”

“What will you be doing in the meantime,” Quintess asked.

“I think I may know a way to expose the intentions of any hidden netherlings,” Irmina answered.

C
hapter 16

R
yne strode through Benez’s halls, its walls empty of the rich trappings they once held. Ahead of him Stefan walked with his hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly as he listened to Garon. Mirza, Devan, and Guthrie were a step behind those two. When they’d first entered the castle Stefan had paused to say a brief prayer for his children. Seeing the fresh tears roll down the elder Dorn’s face had been more painful than Ryne expected. Frowning, he regarded Stefan’s aura. As it was of late, it flitted through a number of chaotic changes caused by his mental instability. Much like the city Stefan was a sliver of the man he remembered.

With each echoing footstep Ryne’s memories crashed like the waves in the Sea of Swirls as they slammed into the cliffs along the Barrier Mountains. He recalled when he ruled this place, when people thronged to see him, praised his name, called him the Lightbearer. In those same recollections he saw the opposite, the revulsion, the fear that made men hurry along the streets, glance over their shoulders, made mother’s sing to their babes at night in hopes of dispelling the monsters that stalked the darkness. In the latter memories he’d almost killed Stefan’s children, Stefan himself, waged war after war, and brought much of Ostania to ruin. In a world where people once thought him a god, the legacy he left behind might ever be one of decimation, a tapestry of suffering and sorrow drawn in blood.

All because of Kahkon.

He ground his jaw as the need to kill the creature the man had become gnawed at him. Ryne remembered when the Skadwaz were his, Matii who did his bidding, as did so much of the shade. The balance to their counterparts of light, the Ashishin and the Toscali. Now, they’d been transformed into something grotesque.

So much had changed since he lost himself to Mater and the power the beings that inhabited it bestowed. Much of the world had been laid waste by men and women like himself whose mandates were to protect, uphold the sanctity of the gods, and preserve the lives of the people the gods created. He still didn’t quite know exactly what led the first Eztezians to turn against their creators, to accept the power given to them by the netherlings.

Tales from before his time claimed the reason was due to the gods being corrupted by their own power much like the Eztezians, battling among themselves for supremacy, breaking the world. But some part of those stories didn’t ring true.

The gods wielded Prima Materium and that lacked the malevolence that inhabited Mater. It shouldn’t have affected the gods in such a way.

The other stories rang with more truth, the ones that claimed the netherlings were angry with the gods for using them during their wars to create shadelings. Those tales gave credence to why the Nine wanted to replace the gods, reshape the world. They also made it more plausible that the netherlings had misled the Eztezians into attacking the gods with their newfound power.

“The older you have grown, the less you speak.” Trucida’s raspy voice carried a hint of amusement.

“I was never fond of wasting words,” Ryne said.

“True. Your sword spoke for you more often than not.” Trucida leaned closer to him. “This place must hold a number of unsavory memories for you,” she added low enough so only he heard.

Ryne took a deep breath, pushing back against his recollections. “It does, but it also has its share of good. In the end, all that will matter is if Denestia survives.”

“If it doesn’t?”

“Then you, I, and all the others who struggled toward the same goal will have wasted a lot of lives for nothing.”

“To speak the truth, I doubted we would reach this point. So many years spent slogging through mistake after mistake, unraveling the lies that shrouded facts.” She nodded toward the group ahead. “They make me believe it’s worth it.”

Ryne eyed the men. He agreed with Trucida’s sentiments. From the first time he’d been given his charge to help protect the human races, he harbored more than a few misgivings. Humans were weak, were fodder for the monsters of the world. Why had the gods chosen to preserve them? After witnessing many a sacrifice over the millennia, some by the same men here, he had begun to change his opinion. When they seemed to be at the edge of decimation, they somehow found a way. Through wavering beliefs, in the face of insurmountable odds, against powers well beyond them, they had persevered. Their survival to this point gave him hope. Even if it was a small hope, it was enough.

“Soon we will be in unheralded territory,” Trucida said.

“May the gods help us then,” Ryne uttered.

“Indeed.”

They approached the door to one of the main dining halls. Ryne was glad they’d chosen to avoid the throne room. Not that he expected it to be of much use after his confrontation with the Tribunal and its warriors so many years ago, but the memories it held would have been overwhelming. As much as he prided himself on always being in control, there were some things he was not willing to confront.

Garon pushed open the door, and they followed. Torches set into sconces on the pillars lit the interior, a few firelamps among them, the glass imbued to cast light without heat. One or two of them held lightstones, each one giving off a soft, white luminance. A message map occupied one half of the floor. The sweet aroma of food drifted from the dishes occupying one of several long tables around the room. The scents set Ryne’s stomach grumbling. He wasn’t the only one eyeing the food.

At the table, near a cushioned armchair, stood Edsel Stonewilled, face scarred, lacking one ear, and bearing a black leather patch over his left eye. He spread his arms wide. “All these years, I hoped, but I never thought I’d see the day. I heard about the attacks on Eldanhill, and I prayed, I prayed … Stefan … Lord Dorn, it’s, it’s so good to see you again.”

Ryne glanced over to Ancel’s father. Tears trickled down the Lord General’s sunken cheeks. Even his son appeared surprised by them. A smile spread across Stefan’s face and without uttering a word, he strode across the room and hugged his old friend and former General. The two men sobbed and laughed and talked. For the first time in a long while a semblance of joy stirred in Ryne’s chest.

“I suggest you eat while they catch up on old times.” Garon gestured to the tables.

“As much as I would love to,” Ancel said, “my people outside are in need of supplies and food themselves. I won’t eat until I know they’re taken care of.”

Ryne couldn’t help the pride he felt. Ever since the Iluminus Ancel had grown more assertive. Although his father had assumed the lead, Ancel made certain no one wanted for anything.

“It’s already being handled, I assure you,” Garon said.

“Thank you.” Ancel nodded once.

They made their way to the tables and sat. Soon they were digging into beef stew, baked chicken, roasted potatoes, fruit, and pouring kinai wine from several flagons. The drink chased away the onset of Ryne’s fatigue.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him smile.” Guthrie waved a chicken leg in Stefan’s direction.

“Hmm,” Devan said, “ever since they took Thania he’s been different.”

“Da …” Mirza bumped his elbow into Devan.

“Oh sorry, Ancel.” The boulder-shouldered man dipped his head toward the younger Dorn. “I—”

Ancel waved him off. “It’s fine. And besides you’re right. I wondered if I would ever see any light in his eyes again. Perhaps this is the start of something.” A wistful expression crossed the young man’s face. “Who was he to my father?”

“General Kasimir Edsel,” Guthrie declared, “one of his most trusted men.”

“Along with Garrick Nagel, they were near inseparable,” Devan added.

“Nagel?” Ancel paused with a potato near his mouth. “You mean like Irmina Nagel?”

Devan nodded. “The same. She’s a sixth or seventh generation Nagel.”

“Is that the one my father was supposed to have killed?”

“Oh, there’s no supposing,” Guthrie said between bites. “Stefan took his head and burned the corpse. He’d been taken by the shade, transformed into a wraithwolf.”

“It changed the old man.” Devan stared openly at Stefan and Edsel. “Changed all of them. Your father had already sworn that his men would be free to return home and start new lives, build families. Nerian took that all away. It was bad enough when he lost to the Erastonians, but after Garrick, your father was determined to save his family and put down Nerian.”

“He failed on both accounts,” Guthrie said.

Ancel opened his mouth to speak. A sense of what he intended to say passed through Ryne along their connection. Ryne reached along that link.

“Don’t,” Ryne ordered.

“Why? If all these failures and deaths of loved ones is what has my father like this, then telling him can only be for the best.”

“He would leave everything behind and rush off to find them. His focus needs to be on the work he has to do here, on gathering allies and preparing for what’s to come.”

“I don’t know. I mean, look at him …”

Ancel’s pain echoed through the link, a throbbing thing that ate at him as he watched his father’s daily struggle, but Ryne couldn’t allow him to do what he intended.

“I just need you to trust me on this one thing for bit longer. At least until High Shin Jerem returns.”

Frustration bubbled through the bond. Then Ancel let out a breath.
“Fine.”

The next few moments passed with the conversation turning to questions for Garon. The four Eldanhill men asked after the city’s people, particularly families they knew from the days of the Shadowbearer War and the War of the Remnants. Garon wove the tale of how they’d become bandits in Felan all the way to them rescuing a batch of Mystera refugees. Jerem had appeared and whisked everyone away to Benez and put Edsel in charge. He was well into telling how they were handling the city’s rebuilding when Stefan and Edsel came to the table. Everyone made to stand, but both men bid them to remain seated.

“I see you’ve made yourselves at home,” Stefan said, still beaming. “Kasimir, this is my son Ancel.”

“A pleasure to meet you, young Dorn.” Lamplight shone from the silver flecks sprinkled among the gold of Edsel’s eye. “Your father has told me much about you.”

Ryne’s brows drew together. The last person he remembered with eyes like those had been Sakari. But unlike Sakari, Charra, or the numerous other netherlings he’d met, Edsel had an aura that carried the same hues and properties as it did in the past. It was smooth and normal without a hint of malice. Not that he could trust it completely, but it gave him some relief.

“I’m happy to meet you too, sir,” Ancel said. “Anyone who can bring a smile to my father’s face I count as a friend.”

Edsel chuckled, his intricate silver braids spilling down past the neck of his shirt. “Calling me sir makes me feel old. Not that I’m young, mind you, but I’d much rather Kasimir.”

“Yes, si—I mean, Kasimir.”

The old General turned his good eye toward Guthrie and Devan. “And you two, inseparable as ever. It’s good to have two old coots like myself with whom to reminisce.”

“Never like you,” Devan said, smiling.

“I’ll have to agree with my friend.” Guthrie had a chicken breast this time. His mouth was already greasy from how much he’d eaten.

“This is my son, Mirza,” Devan said.

“With that hair and those looks, he must take after his mother,” Kasimir said, grinning. He grew serious as he noted no one else was amused. “Which brings us to you two.” When Edsel’s gaze passed over Trucida, his eye grew steely. “Ever since what happened to Seti, I’ve had little respect for the Iluminus, so excuse me if I don’t show the proper respect, Exalted.”

“Well, I didn’t expect hugs and kisses.” Trucida gave Edsel a little smile. “Not after all you have been through. Perhaps before this is all done you can find a place in your heart for us again.”

“We shall see.”

Trucida raised a glass of kinai and inclined her head.

“And you, Ryne Waldron.” Edsel’s smile was warm and wide. “As always you’re welcome under any roof of mine.” The old General paused, surveying everyone but Ryne with that single eye of his. “I was waiting for Stefan to mention it, but it appears none of you know about Ryne.”

“Know what?” Stefan’s brow wrinkled as he regarded Ryne.

Ancel was also peering at him, trying to read his face. The young man thought perhaps Edsel was about to reveal the secret. Ryne waited, expression as unreadable as ever.

“You’re in the presence of the Lightbringer or the Shadeslayer, whichever he’d prefer to be called.” Edsel declared. “Or, if you let the more pious tell it, Ryne the Lost Battleguard.”

Gasps issued from many a mouth at the table.

“Wait,” Stefan said, holding up a calloused hand, “I knew there was something familiar about him, but you’re saying this is the same man that saved you at Coronad, that hunted some of the Setian who became Amuni’s Children? We all thought he was dead.”

“Me too,” Edsel said. “Until he saved us again from a Skadwaz.”

“Thank you,” Stefan said, expression unreadable despite the praise.

“It’s the least I could do.” Ryne nodded. “Not all the Setian that fell in those days were the tainted.”

“Dark times.” Guthrie downed his drink.

“Well.” Stefan sat and poured himself a cup of wine. “Now that we’re here, we can start to repair our reputation or lack of it. But before that, we need to get our people mended. Trucida, if you don’t mind gathering any other Matii with knowledge on brewing potions and the like, that could go a long way. Edsel, are the old groves still there?”

Edsel had also taken a seat. “They should be, if the Netherwood hasn’t consumed them.”

“I’ve been wondering about that place,” Mirza said. “Folks we picked up were whispering all sorts of stories. At first I thought them to be exaggerated, but even here in the city no one ventures close to the woods.”

“Well, like most things, the stories carry some truth. In the case of the Netherwood, more so than not.” Edsel gave that dry chuckle of his. “Henden, Remus and a few others describe the Nether as place blacker than black itself. That’s how the great forest that surrounds Benez got its name. All kinds of beasts call it home, many of them several times larger than their counterparts on the outside. Even when we launched the final attack on the Shadowbearer here in Benez, we avoided the place. We still should.”