Embers of a Broken Throne (19 page)

C
hapter 24

A
ccompanied by the rainfall’s constant tap on her cloak and hood, Irmina found herself alone atop Benez’s bulwark. Bricks gray as the pregnant clouds, the fortification extended from where the castle nestled against the mountain’s ragged chest. She’d left Ancel with Stefan and Lord Traushen. As much as she preferred to be present, this was a time for him and his father. A time for family. She recalled the sheer joy on Ancel’s face as they walked with the Cardian Lord, the lightness in his step, the enthusiastic squeeze of his hand on hers. The contentment. In the revelation of his siblings, he’d discovered something precious, worthwhile, a ray on a dark day, and he’d clung fast. She wondered if she would ever experience such a feeling. Heart heavy, she pushed the Dorns from her thoughts.

The Netherwood’s expanse stretched around the city walls before ending hard against the Cogal Drin’s base. Earlier, only the clouds heralded the rainfall, now, thunder and lightning made their grand entrance. Forked arcs seared through the gray mass followed by hungry rumbles. Unlike the storms that chased them on their trek from the Iluminus, this one was natural. Her zyphyl reassured her of that much.

She sucked in a deep breath filled with the scent of wet stone and moss. The cold air cleared her head, abruptly making her aware of the chill that clung to her from her soaked clothes. Determined, she ignored a need to shiver, and set about her task.

Her mind drifted into the Eye where she could sift her emotions, pluck those she needed, taking a chaotic mass, and from it, create order. Within the Eye she floated on nothingness. She sensed the part of her from which she would draw on Mater as if it were an extension of her will, the voices inhabiting the power that shaped the world even now whispering their temptations. Shut out from her core, they did little more than buzz and had even less effect. In the larger share of mind, opened up since taming the zyphyl, a different power resided. From it she called on her beasts.

Her will extended to the daggerpaw king. In Charra’s company somewhere to the south, he was waiting for the rest of the forest’s inhabitants, the ones not protecting the Entosis, to attain their planned locations. Charra’s presence still remained, a whisper compared to what it had been at first. She let them be for the moment.

Shifting focus, she centered on the zyphyl. Her mind soared into the gray-infested sky amid brilliant flashes. Instead of drenched leather and cloth she wore skin of silversteel, blood of air and water essences, her body a sinuous form stretching some hundred feet or more. Lightning seared her vision, each bolt stabbing into her. From sheer reflex she thought to cry out, to flinch, but instead she welcomed the storm’s energy, devoured its fury. Each surge added to power crackling around her in white, blue, and violet hues.

Slowly, the effect of her merging faded, her consciousness separating from the zyphyl’s to exist in its own area within the creature’s mind. With her presence came a swirl of ideas, thoughts, questions, all thrust upon her at once. Each varied. Each originated from a different location in the world. Each belonged to a zyphyl.

“So you have come again,” her zyphyl said in a soft voice that carried a hint of metal sliding on metal.

“Yes.”

“And this time you have learned to control the flood we place upon you.” The zyphyl sounded pleased.

She nodded, knowing the act would carry the impression to the creature. The first time she’d touched this zyphyl’s consciousness, venturing deeper than she ever had before, it had triggered the merge. She learned two things then: the majority of the zyphyls had abandoned their Travelshafts, heading for their home in Everland; and the zyphyls shared knowledge. According to her pet, they were all of one mind.

“I come to you with a task,” Irmina said.

“You who have given us freedom have but to ask.”

“The netherlings, they are of different castes, different intentions, loyalties …”

“So are all humans.”

“And as many of us as have passed through your kind, can you tell which of us mean well? Or have darker intentions?”

The zyphyl took a moment, pondering, and then answered. “For those aligned with the shade, we can. For any creature so inclined we can sense the difference. Our creators made us so.”

“What if I showed you where there might be netherlings? Could you try something similar?” She’d thought about this for some time now. Anything the zyphyl could offer, no matter how slight, might make a difference.

Another pause.

When the response arrived, it was deeper, resonant, brimming with overtones like a hundred singers performing a chorus. “Show us.”

Irmina delved into her memories, replaying all she’d learned from Charra. To it, she added visions of Sakari, Buneri, and Hardan. She guided the zyphyl to the tents that housed the Pathfinders and the netherlings among them.

What felt like an eternity passed as the zyphyls absorbed the information, but she knew it had only been mere heartbeats. The responses echoed in a flurry, each separate but so fast she wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart if not connected to their minds. Her brow puckered against the thought that the information relay had deviated to one central location before returning to her.

“Sometimes I wonder if the gods still actively meddle in men’s affairs,” said a deep voice, the tone that of someone with a wistful smile.

Irmina recoiled. This was the first time she ever had such an overwhelming sense of singularity from the zyphyls. The voice conveyed authority and near endless wisdom.

“I am all of that and more. No need to be afraid of me. Here, I will show you.”

An almost physical presence grasped her mind like a vise. Recollections shot through her, injected in a dizzying haze, all vivid color and sensations, alive, the kick and cry of a newborn, the arms of a happy mother. A boy learned he was special. He communed with beasts. He grew to a man garbed in armor one day, in dazzling white the next, in gold another, at times battling hundreds, at others, making love. In one scene the man tamed his first creature and became renowned. But that didn’t last. People feared him. Eventually the man died. Not his physical self, but his spiritual.

And finally, peace.

In the span of a heartbeat she lived a thousand lives,
his lives
, died a thousand deaths, loved, hated, tasted the bitter pain of sorrow, the sweet ecstasy of elation, battled men and gods, creatures with no names. Through it all he was reshaped into something more, but not once did he surrender. One word echoed in her mind.

Perseverance.

“And so I am,” the voice wheezed, a man speaking through clenched teeth, chest heaving with every word.

“Wh-what are you?” Irmina’s lips quivered.

“Hope, possibly. Despair, maybe,” came the reply as Irmina sensed a shrug of shoulders on a body so ancient it had lost the ability to move. “A balance of both. I was once known as Jenoah Merinian.”

She gasped, thoughts immediately shifting to Galiana as the first Exalted Jenoah Amelie.

“My daughter,” the voice said. “It pleases me to know she took my name.”

Another set of images assailed her, these ones less volatile, more a transference of what she needed to know, of what the zyphyls relayed. She gaped as it unfolded, her blood running cold.

The netherlings and their castes among the folk in Benez were laid bare before her. With the revelation, a sensation stirred deep in her belly, fire and ice, a gale like the storm around her. The fire rekindled a need to kill. When she thought of what the revelation meant for Ancel, she became terrified for him.

“No.”

The command stilled her.

“Seek the Eye.”

She obeyed, uncertain as to when she’d lost a hold of it. “We have to tell him.” Her stomach fluttered.

“Not yet. He isn’t ready. His fight lies in the Broken Lands. He must find victory there before he visits me. Then, and only then, will the both of you be prepared for the true battle. Now, allow me to show you the secrets of a Tamer.”

Merinian’s knowledge assailed her.

C
hapter 25

R
yne Materialized in the Rotted Forest, its swelter like sitting in a steam bath. Black trees towered, ichor dripping from their trunks, leaves little more than spotted infections, roots snaking their way up through leafy mush. The ripe stench of death and rot washed over him, a battlefield left to stew in the juices of the slain. He knew to keep away from the dense brush and branches that hung low across what seemed to be paths. All traps for the trees to feast. Animal and birdcalls echoed. The occasional twig snapped as some predator stalked the brush, no doubt considering him for the next meal. Unlike when he’d been here during the War of Remnants, most knew to keep clear, recognizing him for what he was.

Nearby bushes shook. Tensing, Ryne slid his hand to his sword hilt.

An infected lapra emerged, several times larger than an oversized wolf. As with much of the Rotted Forest’s denizens, its aura shone with a dull, gray pallor. Fluid dripped from pink flesh, oozing over splotchy fur made blacker by decay. The beast reared, two forepaws raised while relying on the other four limbs to stand. Red eyes shone above a broad muzzle.

Body frozen, Ryne kept eye contact with the infected lapra. Not that he would fail to kill the creature, but doing so was likely to lure its pack. As strong as he was, they could still prove a test here where they held sway. He would rather conserve his Prima. After sniffing the air and releasing a snort, the lapra melted among the undergrowth.

Breathing easier, Ryne judged his bearings based on tree height, density, and a nearby ward carved into a bole. Once certain of his location he broke into a jog toward the forest’s eastern edge and the Broken Lands beyond. Some three hundred feet into his trek the awareness of someone following him crept across the back of his neck.

He continued on, pretending he was unaware of their presence. From the corner of his eyes he picked out the telltale blur of men moving abnormally fast, dark tendrils spilling from their auras. Corrupted shade. When he was a few dozen feet from the crack of light and the reddish haze ahead that spoke of the forest’s end and the Broken Lands proper, they attacked.

They bounded from among the brush and branches, three on each side. Dressed in deep green, faces covered in Alzari war paint, they immediately dived into Styles and Stances pertaining to the Forms. Quick as thought they were on him, black daggers twirling as they stabbed and sliced. Each strike was true, unrelenting, swift, steadfast violence that could only be met with the same.

Ryne smiled. Through his Etchings he called on the shade. It was like stretching muscles long dormant due to nonuse. From the surrounding trees, from the Alzari assassins themselves, the essence pumped toward him, blood from a sliced artery. Shade congealed into his protective aura.

The Alzari blades met that barrier and froze. His assailants’ eyes widened. Ryne even heard one of them gasp.

Alzari had a lifelong connection with their weapons. The blades were handed to them from birth. An Alzari would rather die than part with his blade.

So die they did.

Shade shot from the aura, across the blades, and into the men. Their veins blackened with it, a spiderweb that chased their blood flow, found their hearts, and stilled them. Last breaths left their lips in whispers. When their bodies fell, they were nothing more than desiccated corpses.

Engulfed by the sweet throes of life and death, Ryne stretched his neck from side to side. Sela essences coursed through him. The power such a taking brought made him feel as if he could battle the world. Pausing for a few moments he let the euphoria dwindle, and then he jogged the last few feet from the stinking forest.

Stepping from the Rotted Forest into the Broken Lands was akin to striding from a heated room into the hearth itself. The air reeked, a mix of rotten eggs and the incenses used in temples across Denestia. Ryne imagined this must be how Hydae felt. Heat spilled in waves across the landscape. It rose from the rents that littered the ground for as far as his eyes could see. Smoke spurted, steam hissed, underground water meeting molten rock. Lava-filled chasms spread across the landscape, giant, jagged mouths glowing red.

Despite the blasted nature of the land, it supported hardy brush and plants, life that had long adapted to extreme heat. All of it showed signs of being burned. And not by natural occurrences.

Pillars of smoke rose in the distance to match the clouds. Brief flashes radiated in the bloated gray mass. Thunder growled. Ryne counted each plume’s location, taking note of the areas where several climbed the air together. With each increasing number he grew numb.

Amuni’s Children and its shadeling armies had marched across the Broken Lands at unbelievable speed. Of the dozen cities before Kajeta, only three remained. More than ever now Delesden’s decision to move the Chainin from Cardia to his stronghold seemed a mistake. Ryne still couldn’t fathom the reason, but it was no longer of consequence.

Turning, he Shimmered back into the forest to the ward he’d left behind. Once there, he opened a portal to Seti. Heart thumping, he stepped through into one of Ostania’s thunderstorms and raced headlong toward Benez to warn Ancel. However fast he travelled, he couldn’t suppress the feeling that they would be too late.

C
hapter 26

A
ncel left his father and Lord Traushen to their conversation. He grinned every time he thought of the unbridled pleasure written in Stefan’s features, the life in his eyes. It brought back memories of his early life in Eldanhill before all the madness, before nightmares began to stalk him. Years when he was simply a wealthy vintner’s son. Days when they both enjoyed Mother’s cooking, the last dinner she made the evening he left for Randane when this all began. With a heavy sigh he plodded down the hall.

At the main door he paused to pull the hood of his cloak over his head and nodded to one of two guards who opened the door and let him out. Overhead, the clouds had stolen the sky and spirited away Denestia’s setting sun and the rising twin moons. From where he stood he should’ve have been able to see the entire city spread before him past the fallen colonnade, but a slanting gray sheet greeted him, raindrops drumming on the cobbles to their own tune. At least the deluge gave the city a fresh scent. That of new life. Bobbing luminescent balls drifted along the avenues. Radiant spirits, a more imaginative person might have said, except these traveled an ordered pattern before meeting each other, pausing, and then heading back the way they’d come. If he squinted he could just make out the glint of armor from the patrols.

The slight affinity he developed with Irmina said she was up on the nearby bulwark. Assuming she must also be using a lightstone, he peered in her direction, trying to spot her atop the battlements. He sighed when his efforts proved fruitless. The way she remained in place said she must be in contact with one of her pets.

A pull on his mind from farther south reminded him of Ryne’s return. If his mentor had succeeded it would make the day complete. Thoughts of Ryne brought on a frown. Since the trip to the Entosis and the connection with Charra, he had several questions. The first of which would be to discover why Ryne had provided the first creatures to inhabit the Netherwood. Another one of those secrets, he assumed. This time he planned not to relent without answers.

His frown deepened, the memory of Charra’s revelations invading his thoughts. Since this all began he’d dreamed of Hydae and Jenoah. From those nightmares he conjured images of what the Nether must be like. Not once did he fathom it to be as Charra had shown, a black nothingness from which every creature was born, where it appeared any man’s origins might be altered. As much a threat as the shade was proving to be, the Nine and the netherlings in general might be even greater. Too many mysteries shrouded them.

To be assured of victory a warrior must know his enemy better than he knows himself.
Those words from
the Disciplines
had rung true in every battle they’d fought. When he’d dashed headlong into Randane, allowing Jillian’s treachery to goad him, he’d lost Kachien and almost the rest of Eldanhill. He’d done even worse when he’d gone after the deserters. Repeating the same mistake now would be the equivalent of staring disaster in the eye and daring it to spit on him. And it would too, with a jarring defeat from which they might not recover.

Words from the Chronicle of Undeath replayed in his head.

Yet hope dwells within the Entosis,

Guarded and kept by the blood of the Aegis

Through destiny’s doors

And from within a temple’s floors

It begins and ends with Etchings.

He didn’t know what all of it meant, but events had already shown the importance of the Entosis and his Etchings. When the zyphyl had exposed him to the Planes of Existence, he’d witnessed much of the same. All possibilities. The Planes of If, the creature had said. One place drew him and promised answers.

He strode down the stairs, the wind tugging at his cloak, and headed for the stables. The city’s natural incline was doing its job maybe a little too well as water runoff sloshed about his feet. At some point he would ask for volunteers to clear the drains. When he arrived at the stables he got one of the attendants to prepare a dartan, thinking the hard-shelled animal would prove less of a morsel for the Netherwood’s denizens.

After securing several lightstones on the animal, he climbed into the hollow carved in the dartan’s shell and stretched his legs out in front of him. The beast mewled. Ancel pulled at the top of his gloves for a more snug fit, grabbed the chain reins from where they hung in front of him, and shook them. Metal clinked on shell as the dartan mewled once more before ambling down the avenue, its six feet splashing through water.

A wide, familiar form he hadn’t seen since they entered the city stepped out in front of him. Danvir was wearing clothes fit for travel, complete with a cloak, leather boots and a sword in a scabbard on his hip.

“Hail, Dan. I’m glad you came—”

“I just came to say goodbye,” Danvir said, expression stony.

“Goodbye? Where are you off to?” Ancel hadn’t believed what he’d heard from Mirza or Guthrie.

“I know the others must have told you … my father for certain. They say the Netherwood is somewhat safe now, so I’m heading to Felan and the Vallum. Maybe back to Granadia. Who knows? I might go all the way west to Danindad or Torsen. That should keep me away from this war of yours.”

Ancel almost said ‘ours’, but his friend’s expression said such words were pointless. Danvir had made up his mind. The Setian were no people of his. “What of Alys?”

“She’s coming with me. After what her father did, she doesn’t feel welcome or safe.”

He could understand her feelings. If his father had betrayed them he would want to hide also. “Well, if you’re certain this is right for you, then I won’t hold it against you.”

“Goodbye.” Danvir’s eyes glinted wetly before he turned away.

“Dan?”

The other young man stopped but kept his head facing the night.

“Don’t join the Tribunal’s armies. It won’t end well if you do.” With that, Ancel whipped the chain reins. He’d let go a part of his life, people he’d known since he could walk, but if they stood against what was right, if they stood for those who’d made his father suffer, he would have no pity. Life was full of hard lessons, this one harder than most.

Not long after, amid a tune of insect chirps, the drumbeat of rain, and drip of water run-off, he was making his way through brush and trees that did little to deter the dartan’s progress. On several occasions he pinpointed dark forms or the glint of eyes among the trees or one with the shadows. None of the Netherwood’s beasts actually stepped within the radiant pool cast by the lightstones. It remained so until they ventured to the edge of the grove that held the Entosis.

Fangs bared, several daggerpaws and lapras slunk from their hiding places. The dartan warbled a warning and stomped its feet. Ancel waited as patient as he could. When a howl rose above any other sound, the Entosis guards parted to allow his passage.

He guided his mount between close-knit trunks that dripped water from moss, vines, and leaves. In this particular area he could’ve stayed without getting wet, such was the canopy’s density. At last, they broke into the clearing.

The trees surrounding them were taller than any others in the Netherwood. His lightstones penetrated but so far, making the black wall of trunks and foliage even blacker. Flashes still radiated above him. Within the clearing he’d expected to feel more at ease but the air here was somehow thicker, viscous in its consistency. If he held out his hand and closed his fingers he thought he might come away with something tangible. The dartan warbled.

“I agree.” He patted its shell. “This isn’t a likable place, but some things have to be done.”

He dismounted, boots splashing into mud when he landed. Slogging through wet, knee-high grass, he made for the center of the clearing. The air grew even thicker, bearing down on his shoulders. Upon gaining the correct location he extended his hand and felt the Etchings respond of their own accord.

A dark slit appeared before him, several times his height. The dartan made another sound, this one more high-pitched.

With a smile, Ancel stepped forward.

And fell.

The world spun, black on black. His stomach dropped away to depths of nothingness. Bile rose in his throat. Bitter. Sensation and taste were all he had so he clung to them like a man caught on a plank amidst massive swells during a storm at sea. Then as sudden as it began, the world righted itself, black grew to gray, gray to white, white to light. He emerged in the Entosis.

The sun’s golden orb blazed in the sky. A wind caressed his wet cloak and hair. An ocean of grass spread before him, the hills its waves, dotted with animals at play or grazing. Light reflected from the surface of a familiar lake below him. Steep cliffs soared behind him and off to either side, clothed in metals and precious stones. Off in the distance a mountain towered, peak shrouded in mist.

Spanning from the lake, a forest began, its green trees and healthy bloom stretching all the way to the mountain. At its edge was the blinking radiance of resinbuds, the lights in their blossoms activated to attract nearby creatures.

Several swishing noises made him glance to his left. Horse-faced kentens, blue bone protrusions where forelocks would be, Shimmered from near him until they stood next to their bull. The bull shook its golden male, and issued a challenge before strutting off, its bony forelock waving with a life of its own.

Ignoring the creature, Ancel leaned his head back as Prima surged around him. When he glanced down at his Etchings they were aglow beneath his shirt. He almost lost himself in the moment, the completeness and tranquility of it, before thinking on his purpose.

“Light to balance shade. Light to show honor. Honor to show mercy,” he said aloud.

And then he thrust as much Prima as he could into his Etchings, into the one that portrayed Etien the Battleguard. Light and heat seared his body and vision. Incandescence shot skyward. Quick as thought it resolved into a humanoid form, at least a hundred feet tall, eyes like the sun, a glowing sword on its back.

“Ancel, I wondered when you would return.” Etien’s voice was a deep yet gentle rumble. “How may I serve?”

Ancel bowed. “Hail, Etien.”

The sentient nodded.

“It seemed the only way I might get some answers to the questions that plague me was to find someone close to the gods, someone who might have lived during their time.” Ancel undid the clasp that held his cloak around his neck, shrugged off his leather vest, and sat. “So here I am.”

Etien gazed off toward the mountain for a moment, made a grunting sound in his throat, and then said, “Ask.”

“Were we really created to protect the world?”

“For the most part, yes. There is a mantra all Eztezians learned in the old days. It began with a question. Why do we exist?”

“And the answer?”

“To help the helpless, to defend, to build, to destroy, to judge.” Etien gazed toward the great mountain again. “The gods made certain Eztezians responsible for particular races. It was their jobs to determine who would live and die. Some became too attached, choosing to protect when they should have been destroying after judgment. It is a human flaw: clinging to something one has watched grow from infancy, believing in the ability to change, to become more. Even when their charges were mired in darkness, some believed they could still find a spark.”

“What do you believe?”

“Every life, no matter how inconsequential, is worth defending. One shouldn’t condemn an entire race for the acts of few or the many. The Setian are the perfect example.”

Ancel could relate. He pictured Eztezians having the same feelings that drove him: an absolute need to save those he held dear regardless of the consequences.

“I grow tired of always reacting to the plots of Amuni’s Children and the Nine,” Ancel said. “It’s past time I made them respond to me.”

“A fair enough assessment.” Etien lowered himself to the ground, legs crossed. His body encompassed the hillside below Ancel. “How may I help?”

“How do I tell the netherlings apart? How do I discover all of them among my people?”

“Two methods exist that I know of. A Beasttamer can be shown through her pets but that in itself is limited.” Etien’s breath fluttered through the grass. “The other is for you to possess the Tenets of heat and cold, to hold guardianship, become a Materwarden for those also.”

“Then I’ll be able to tell?”

“After a fashion. You will be able to sense or see all netherlings but the Nine. Until you are the guardian of all the Streams, the Nine will be indiscernible to you.”

“That’s it?” Ancel frowned. “Could I invoke the Tenets right now? I know heat’s.”

Etien smiled the smile of a teacher regarding an overenthusiastic student. “You would be stronger, some of its Etchings would appear, but you wouldn’t be heat’s Materwarden.”

“But—”

Etien held up his hand. “First, you must understand there are many different invocations of a Tenet, and as many different Tenets as there are essences. Consider that there are three elements: the Streams, the Flows, and the Forms, which are made up of the major essences. Within those major essences are minor ones, like fire for heat, or ice for cold. Each of them has a Tenet and a power of its own, not all of them known.

“The stronger among you can change the properties the Tenet calls upon. Take heat for example. One of its Tenets states heat to balance metal, calling upon heat to affect metallic essences and thus change their form.”

Ancel frowned as a memory sparked. “That’s the one Ryne used.”

“My point made,” Etien said. “The strongest among the Eztezians can summon sentients when invoking a Tenet, but only the Materwarden can call forth one such as I, a Battleguard. The warden alone is capable of using the essence to its full potential. And his Tenet would include the opposite to the essence he holds.”

“Hmm,” Ancel said. “How can I become the Materwarden for the others then?”

“Three ways. By having the one currently attuned to the task release the Tenet to you, either of his own accord or by you killing him. If he dies and refuses to release it to you, then you must cross the Kassite, pass through Hydae, venture into the Nether, and hope to find the netherling who guards the sela that contains the Tenet. The third method is to travel to Antonjur and wrench the power from the mountain’s grasp.”