Embers of a Broken Throne (23 page)

C
hapter 31

T
o avoid undue attention and alarm, Ancel left his army of Pathfinders, Dagodins, and Forgers hidden within the foothills of the Ost Mountains. In four days he’d gathered all he needed, including the bulk of the Netherwood’s animals led by Charra and the daggerpaw king. He’d lost valuable time, if what Ryne said held true, but the work in the Entosis with Irmina had taken longer than anticipated. Irmina and Trucida had Materialized his little army to the Fretian Woods, east of Carnas. He’d considered going to see the village of Ryne’s most recent origin, but they advised against it. Nothing but bad memories, they claimed.

The trip across the last of the Wilds and the Orchid Plains with its flowers in full springtime bloom had been refreshing. He relished the recollection of the red and blue sea’s perfumed aroma as if they still rode through knee-high stalks or whooped and hollered at the great herds of dartans that called the plains home. He could do with that scent now. Along the River Ost they had only the reek of mud and brine for company.

The closer they came to Ostere, the stronger the bond that told of another Eztezian’s presence grew. As did what he felt through the pendant.

As they rounded a bend in the River Ost, a small forest on one side, Ostere slid into view. The river’s main tributary split the city down the middle. A white bridge spanned murky waters littered with a variety of vessels, some built for war manned by large crews, others for more leisurely purposes, and the smaller ones occupied with anywhere from two to a dozen fishermen. Squat buildings lined the banks from the docks out to the surrounding fields. One structure was several stories higher than the others, a flag bearing a diamond and a gold bar flying above it.

The first semblance of a road presented itself, cobbles overgrown with weeds and cracked from years of nonuse. According to Irmina, the Wilds were a place to be shunned except by the most adventurous or foolhardy, and yet in the inherent danger he’d found some solace. Despite her claims, they were no worse for wear. And some place within the city he would meet his long lost sister and take another step to gain what had been thrust upon him. A risk taken for much gain.

My sister.
Heat’s Tenet.

He grimaced. Shouldn’t he feel something? Elation, anticipation, excitement, a sense of fulfillment? Instead, he was numb.

For four days he’d made a prison of his emotions within the Eye. Four days to remain detached lest his feelings over Ryne’s deception grow from where it simmered into a blaze to peel skin from flesh and flesh from bone. Even now, with a new goal in sight, he dreaded the thought of putting key to lock and releasing his hate and the fury that would accompany it. Releasing his bloodlust. The wound he nursed was still too fresh, a scab that cracked and leaked blood, an ember destined to explode into roaring flames given a slight breath.

At least he hadn’t Forged to speed along the depletion of his sela. Regardless, he still felt it leaking away. One day soon it would force him to face the tumult in his mind. He’d worry about it later. In war, one built on small victories.

“Finally,” Mirza said atop the speckled dartan next to him, “civilization. Good food and a hot bath are calling me.”

“You might find Banai food a bit spicy for your taste,” Irmina warned. “It’s been known to cause issues for those who lack a strong constitution.”

“No worries, I have just the cure.” Trucida’s toothless gums showed in a mischievous grin. “Cleans the system out nicely.”

Mirza groaned. “I’ve had enough cleaning out to last me a lifetime.” He hadn’t taken well to the concoctions Trucida had insisted they drink to combat the Wilds’ dangerous plants and insects.

“Can never be too clean,” the old Exalted declared. “If your shit doesn’t smell like flowers then something’s wrong.”

“One man’s flower garden is another man’s outhouse,” Mirza said.

“There’s nothing pleasing about that picture.” Irmina grimaced in disgust.

Ancel smiled to see them in such good spirits. His mind drifted back to days like this when it would be Mirza and Danvir beside him. Or when he’d visit Alys or some other girl only to have one of his friends interrupt with loud thumps on the door. He missed Dan, and hoped their old friend would find the home he sought.

The few Banai along the road, yellow-skinned and bald-headed, gave their party odd looks. Those on mounts offered a cursory nod and handled their dartans with a deftness he envied. As he often did when he encountered new people he took in their auras. Each one held a distinct individuality that would remain etched in his memory. He saw some hostility, but nothing that warned of an attack.

“Why do they keep looking at us that way?” Mirza asked.

“Because no one in their right mind would willingly venture into the Wilds,” Irmina said.

Mirza shrugged. “Except for the insects and those lapra packs, I found the area quite pleasant.”

“I think the presence of a few thousand soldiers and our abnormally large allies had more to do with the ease of passage than anything we actually did,” Ancel said.

“Come to think of it, I would’ve avoided us too.” Mirza shifted in his saddle toward Irmina. “How in Hydae’s Flames did you manage to tame those beasts anyway? Then again, considering the ease with which you slapped a leash on Ancel, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Both he and Irmina broke into chuckles.

“I think we have a greeting party,” Ancel said, smiling.

Three dartans trotted toward them, the riders to either side carrying the Banai flag. The two standard-bearers wore sleeveless vests that shimmered each time they caught the sunlight and exposed arms as big as a man’s thigh. An older man rode between them, dressed in plain robes. Unlike the other two who bore colorful swirls on opposite sides of their heads, a tapestry covered this leader’s baldpate, oiled to a sheen.

“I can see my reflection from here,” Mirza said under his breath.

“Stop it,” Irmina admonished, but a hint of mirth tinged her words. “He’s their Sojun if my memory serves me correctly. And not one to be trifled with. He has as much or more power than the king.”

Ancel narrowed his eyes, regarding the men with greater care. “There’s no threat from their auras.”

“And I haven’t seen anyone who might pass for—” Mirza stopped, turned in his saddle, and let out a groan.

“Let me guess,” Ancel said, not bothering to glance back. “Soldiers of some sort among the folk who passed us.”

“Archers,” Mirza said.

People scrambled from the road as the Banai approached. Each one dropped to their knees in supplication when the Sojun passed. The three riders stopped several feet ahead.

“I’ll go on alone,” Ancel said.

“But—” Irmina began.

“If I see the slightest hint of treachery, I’ll kill them and anyone else armed behind us. So, no worries.” He pulled on the chain reins and sent his dartan into a brisk trot.

Up close, the Sojun was a wizened little old man, jaw and chin pronounced, eyes filled with knowledge. His escorts were dark-eyed giants. Ancel wasn’t fooled. The Sojun was by far the most dangerous of the group. One didn’t gain the slabs of sinew and lean muscle that gave the deceiving appearance of malnourishment when one was helpless. Neither did one gain the scar tissue on his face and knuckles from prayer.

“Lord Ancel Dorn,” the Sojun said, voice soft, smile like the sun, “if anyone else but Jerem had said it, I might think it a lie. Stefan lives on in you.” He spoke in Banai, the language carrying a high lilt.

“Gavril Cortens?”

“Who did you expect?” asked the hairless old man. “You did send for me, no?”

“Jerem said you held some sway among the Banai, not that …” Ancel shook his head.

“Not that I’m the leader of the Essence of Liganen, the Sojun? Jerem has a habit of leaving out details. As he left out that you spoke perfect Banai. I meant to speak to you in common Ostanian, but my language comes so natural I forgot.” Gavril tilted his head in appreciation.

Ancel doubted the man ever forgot anything. “No worries.” He gave the Sojun a warm smile.

“You must excuse the greeting.” The Sojun nodded in the direction of the archers. “We’ve had recent trouble from the Wilds. Shadelings in the guise of men. And men infected with the shade’s taint.”

“Well, that’s the reason I’m here.”

“So I’ve been told. Shall we?” The Sojun indicated the city. “Your sister awaits.”

Ancel searched for the excitement that the pronouncement should have brought. Nothing. Not even a tingle. He signaled for the others to join him. After introductions, they headed into Ostere.

Along the way, the Banai locals paid deference to their caravan. Sprinkled among them was the occasional tall, lithe, copper-skinned Felani, heads shaved on one side, and the occasional slit-necked Cardian. More prominent were the Harnan, hair and size to match Ryne. The thought brought on a pang despite the Eye. The mixture of tongues and accents along the street made for music if he listened closely. Not so much the odor of so many people and animals packed into one area.

“How is it such a remote city is this busy?” Ancel asked, despite knowing the answer.

“It’s the one port the Desorin frequent to trade,” Gavril said. “So our people tend to congregate here, along with merchants from a few select kingdoms. Also, the Wilds, regardless of their dangers, provide a wealth of exotic herbs and spices. In fact, they’re renowned for the kinai. One of the two reasons your father once called them home.”

“And the other?” He was already aware of the trade with the Desorin from Irmina. It was the deciding factor for the meeting.

“Why, the dartans of course. Your father loved the creatures. He was the first to ever employ them in battle. But one of his favorite pastimes was watching the dartan races. They are a big part of who we are.”

Ancel frowned as he recalled his father’s affection for the creatures. Dismissing the thought, he said, “Tell me, Sojun Gavril, these Desorin, how do they reach Ostere? I mean, if all I’ve heard is true, most people won’t risk the evils within the Rotted Forest. And as I’ve learned, no Matii can Materialize within the Broken Lands. I’m assuming their major cities employ Travelshafts?”

“There are no Travelshafts in the Broken Lands.”

“Really? Then how …?”

“The Desorin merchants visit us through the Lost Sea.”

“I thought the Lost Sea wasn’t navigable.”

“By us,” Gavril said, gesturing to encompass their surroundings, “it isn’t. For them, it is. It’s said that the Desorin themselves are the ones responsible for the impenetrable mists and the storms. Who knows?” He shrugged. “It might be true. One thing no one can dispute is their ability to sail those waters. Why such interest in the Broken Lands?”

“You don’t know?” Ancel frowned as he regarded the Sojun.

“Know what?”

“It’s being overrun by Amuni’s Children and their shadeling armies. Soon they will be within striking distance of Kajeta.”

“Impossible,” Gavril hissed. “Come, we must hurry to your sister.”

The Sojun yelled for his guards to make a passage. The men charged ahead, shouting and clearing the way. With a snap of his reins Gavril sent his dartan bounding forward. They raced through crowded streets, past taverns, markets, and villas.

When they reached the temple with the Banai flags flying overhead, they stopped and dismounted. Servants took their mounts, and Gavril led them inside. Banai dressed similarly to the Sojun, but with less tattoos on their pates, strolled down one hall or another, each one bowing to Gavril whenever he passed. Several plain hallways later, they entered a large room with small statues dedicated to Liganen and Humelen off in the corners, and a massive representation of the two deities at its center.

Ancel’s eyes were immediately drawn to a woman who was inspecting a tapestry on otherwise bare walls. Clothed in leather armor, she had to the Queen. The way she held herself, back straight, chest up as if she owned the temple, said as much. She radiated authority.

Near her stood a tall, wide-chested, swarthy man in mostly unremarkable clothing whose heritage he couldn’t discern. An emblem of a maelstrom stood out on his jacket. The man wore black-hafted short swords on either hip as if they were a part of him, and he scanned the windows and doors before he settled on Ancel’s group. The swords reminded Ancel of Kachien’s weapons. Of them all, the stranger seemed most interested in Trucida, all but ignoring the others. What bothered Ancel the most about the man was that he had no aura.

“Netherling,” Ancel said under his breath.

“No,” the woman said, voice melodious yet commanding, “Kudric is very much human, but like the most skilled Deathbringers, he knows how to hide his aura.” She turned to face them. Ancel’s breath caught in his throat.

Celina was Mother’s twin, silver eyes and all, but with dark hair. The way she tilted her head to look at him reminded Ancel of when he’d get into mischief and Mother would have the identical expression.

“Even if I doubted it,” she said, “not that I did, because I could feel you, seeing you now says who you are more than anything. Like our brother, you carry much of our father in you.” She strode toward them, her bodyguard making to follow, but she held up her hand.

Legs wooden, Ancel walked to meet her. They met midway before the statues. She held out her hand to caress his face, her touch light. She smelled of freshness and perfume like flowers on a spring day.

Tired of fighting within the Eye, he let go. His emotions crashed around him like an avalanche. Before he realized what he was doing, he was hugging his sister and sobbing.

C
hapter 32

D
eep in the bowels of the citadel of Stone, Ryne sat with the Svenzar Elder Assembly. Hewn from bedrock, earth, and metal, their five faces encompassed the walls around him, eyes wise, expressions stoic. The single member who sat next to him wasn’t made purely of the Forms like the others. He was human.

“Until the Sanctums activated, we were never sure you would return to us, Shaded One.” King Kalvor’s countenance wore diamonds and precious metals on its forehead.

“But you had hope,” Ryne said. “And hope is one of the world’s greatest weapons.”

“Yes.” As with the others of his kind, Halvor’s voice rang in musical tones. “I tried to guide you when you were simply Ryne, but you were not quite ready.”

“The battle at the Great Divide has not gone well.” This from Kendin, his face a mass of rocky crags. “With the vasumbrals and archdaemons to support him, our Forgers are near useless against this Kahkon.”

“The Stoneguard have been the only ones able to keep them at bay.” Anton stood and paced across the room, sabatons pinging on the stony ground. “But within their domain, and lacking the ability to make Forges work, we can do but so much.” He pounded a gauntleted fist into his palm. “I’m afraid we need you.”

“Have you discovered who this Kahkon really is, who took over the boy?” Ryne had searched the vaults of his mind for a hint, a memory, anything to tell who this Skadwaz might be, but he’d found no answers. He did conclude the person had to be someone close, someone from his past. Kahkon’s need to make him suffer reeked of personal vengeance.

A pause followed, the five faces upon the wall looking from one to the other. Ryne cocked his head, a tingle of anticipation edging up his spine.

At last, King Kalvor spoke. “We have.”

In the ensuing silence Ryne could hear their breathing, heavy sounds that weighed on the air itself. Anton did a good job of remaining expressionless, but the manner in which he held his back straight said enough. The news wasn’t good.

“He is Teoden Adler,” said Harishna, the eldest of the Svenzar, his face white limestone striated with darker sediment.

The name left Ryne speechless.

As a boy, Teoden had been the most promising of his students. Born with power that already ran in his bloodline from his mother, Trucida, it appeared that he’d also been Gifted, one of the few who could become an Eztezian, able to wield Prima and possibly become a Materwarden. At first they’d thought him to be a part of the Aegis, but he’d failed his test of balance, succumbing to Mater. In the end, it took his mother’s own deception and Ryne’s help to kill him. Or so they thought.

Ryne glanced from one Svenzar to the other, brows furrowed. “Why do I have the sense that there’s more?”

“Teoden gave himself to the thirty-two winds. He carries their stain now, harnesses them,” said Telisiana, the last Svenzar, her voice like the echo of wind chimes, bouncing off the chamber’s walls.

Ryne gaped. The thirty-two winds was the Svenzar name for the voices within Mater. The revelation explained a great deal, certainly how Teoden had been able to wrest away the Great Divide’s power.

“Is Trucida aware of what her son has done?” he asked.

“We believe she is,” Harishna said. “She has been searching for a cure or answers to his affliction for centuries. It influenced her into joining the Gray Council. Supporting their cause meant keeping the gods locked away. She knows their advent means the end for him.”

Trucida’s help at the Great Divide said she might have given up on a chance to save her son. She was ever one to hold onto secrets, and not one to skirt what needed to be done. If she bore sentiment toward preserving her son’s life, she could’ve helped him defeat Ryne and Kalvor. She offered Ryne her assistance instead. Now he understood the sadness and weariness in her voice the day they defeated Lestere and Henden.

“I will accompany Anton to the Great Divide to deal with Teoden,” Ryne declared. “I’ll need three of you to help overpower him. The others, I ask a favor of you.”

“We owe you a boon for the part we played in seeing you become the Shadowbearer,” King Kalvor intoned.

“And we owe you even more for saving our descendants the Sven and the Harnan during the Luminance War,” Harishna said.

Ryne recalled those days as a young man given the power of gods, ready to do good, to bring light into the world. This was before he knew the complexity of life. For every action there was an equivalent exchange, for every good deed there was one of evil, for every light there was a dark stain. One supported the other. For the world to thrive there had to be feast and famine, new breaths and last breaths, birth and butchery, joy and sorrow, pain and comfort, peace and war. They all held hands. At one point he might have hated the Svenzar for the part they played in what he’d become, particularly since he’d saved their kind from the shade, but those days were behind him.
I am what I am.

“What is it you would have us do?” Telisiana asked.

“Ancel will come to the Entosis in the Nevermore. I need you to help him with an attack from the Riven Reaches.”

Pebbles fell from around Kalvor’s eyes as his brow furrowed. “I gather you will not be present to offer him a hand?”

Ryne shook his head.

“Then he knows,” Halvor said.

“Yes.” Ryne’s chest heaved. “And not in a manner of my choosing.”

“Why leave it this long? Why risk it happening this way? Revealing yourself to him in the Entosis while he trained with the sentient would have been the opportune time.” Kendin actually seemed upset. His reaction had been one of Ryne’s worries as the Svenzar had spoken greatly of Ancel since Randane.

“It had to be done this way.” Ryne kept his features even and tried to hide his own concerns. “As I learned from my brother and my master, balance is key in all things. A warrior must be unleashed with the fires of his emotions as weapons. Then and only then can one gauge if his edge has been honed to perfection.” He’d taught Ancel how to engage his brighter self, to seek light. Darkness could not be taught. It had to be experienced.

Kendin grumbled a protest Ryne couldn’t discern. A moment passed, and then he said, “So be it.”

“Of greater to concern to me,” Harishna rumbled, “is this help from the Riven Reaches. Only one place is open to attack from that location. And we swore since one of our own turned from us to create the abomination that is the Broken Lands that we would never step foot or raise hand to assist him. Delesden is dead to the Svenzar.”

“It was because of his help that you became the Shadowbearer.” Stone crumbled and fell from where Kalvor’s face. “Why would you want to help him?”

“Because he is an Eztezian, because he is your son,” Ryne said. A grumble from Kalvor sent a stone spinning by him. “And because Ancel needs the Tenet he holds,” Ryne continued. “If the boy fails in this, the shade or the Nine win.” He locked gazes with the king. “Few of us remain of the old breed. We must band together if the world is to have a chance in this era. I don’t know about you, but I’m weary. I’m ready for Ascension.”

“And what if our plans lead to the opposite? To Amuni’s rule over the world, to Hydae standing in place of Denestia?” A metallic glint radiated from Kalvor’s eyes. “To us serving the Nine.”

“A great man once told me it is worth the risk of dying in a fight than to live having not fought at all.”

“I was younger then,” Kalvor’s features softened.

“You and I both know we cannot gain anything without risk. It’s the game the gods play with the lives of men, spending them with one wager or another.” Ryne glanced from one Svenzar to the next. “It’s time we shook the cup and made the odds more favorable.”

Kalvor inhaled and exhaled, long and slow, his breath ruffling Ryne’s hair. “What would you have us do?”

“Follow Ancel’s lead, do what the Svenzar do best: fight.”