Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods) (63 page)

“Blessed High Shin and Raijin,” the other men intoned almost at once while bowing.

High Shin Jerem coughed.

Blushing, Ryne tore his eyes away from Irmina and the slight twitch of her lips.

“As I was saying. Your fight is elsewhere, Master Waldron.”

Ryne frowned. “There’s at least one daemon at Bastair and maybe a Skadwaz. Why would I go some place else to fight?”

High Shin Jerem’s bony hand snaked out of the flared ends of his robes’ sleeves. “Study the map once more.” The markers for the enemy forces repositioned again. “Think about how many they needed to destroy the Alzari. Then consider how many Alzari now possibly belong to the shade. What do you see?”

Pursing his lips, Ryne counted a third of the Alzari as having succumbed to the shade’s influences. With the mercenaries among them, this army was unlike anything he remembered encountering. So if they wanted Cendos and Bastair so badly why not bring all their forces? Why send what may well be only a third? Was it a trap? Where was the remainder of this army? And why avoid all the towns and cities they had, leaving the chance to be struck from behind by the massed Ostanian armies?

Ryne’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a double feint. Cendos and Bastair aren’t their true targets either. They want us to fight there.” He traced a straight line across the map from the two towns to a city thousands of miles beyond them to the northeast. “Their target is Castere.”

Breaths drew in from everyone but Jerem. The old High Ashishin smiled. “I knew you would see it if nudged a bit. However, it’s worse than you think. It appears Castere was already being ruled by one of Amuni’s servants.”

“Voliny?” Ryne scrunched up his face.

“Or Mayor Bertram if you would rather,” Jerem said.

Breath quickening, muscles tightening, Ryne’s bloodlust rose in a red torrent, filling his body, his eyes, stiffening him.
Hagan, you and your pipe. Vana and Vera…

Ancel reached a tentative hand to his sword. It had become a habit although he didn’t need to touch it to tell the weapon was there. The soothing warmth of his bond to the sword told him it sat in the scabbard at his hip. The same for his mother’s charm around his neck. He could feel the warm link of his mother through it, calling to him in earnest.

“We go on foot from here,” A grimace played across Galiana’s pale face as she dismounted on the path several hundred feet before the last turn to his parents’ winery.

Gloomy twilight hung in the air. Clouds scudded above, so dark and thick they choked out any semblance of the setting sun. Shadows cast by the oaks and pines of the Greenleaf Forest lay across their path, making the road in the distance near invisible before it disappeared at the next bend. Thicker still was the silence around them.

Kachien dismounted next, her eyes flitting from side to side to take in their surroundings. Ancel and Guthrie followed soon after. The innkeeper secured their mounts before leading the animals among the trees, returning a few moments later. Charra remained next to Ancel, his gaze riveted on the woods.

“What does my mother have to do with any of this? Why would shadelings be after her?”

“Everything,” Galiana answered, her white dress standing out within the darkness of the area.

“I don’t understand,” Ancel said.

“You soon will,” Galiana said. I—” She stumbled on the uneven ground.

Guthrie caught her. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Shin Galiana?”

Sagging against Guthrie for a moment, Galiana squeezed here eyes tight and took several deep breaths. When she opened them, she spoke again, her voice a hoarse reflection of itself. “There is no one left but me who could do this. Now I know why they attacked at the Spellforge Hour. It was to tempt us into expending as much power as possible to save Eldanhill. It will still be another day before any of the other Matii are recovered as much as I am. Whoever or whatever that man in black was who defeated Stefan, he will return. After all, dawn is when power waxes greatest for males. Whatever he plans will happen soon.”

“Let’s rest for a moment,” Guthrie implored.

Galiana gave the innkeeper’s hand a gentle touch and a squeeze. “A moment we do not have. Follow.” She pushed herself from Guthrie’s arms and headed toward the winery. “As for your mother’s purpose, let me ask you. How does the sword feel?”

Ancel glanced to his hip tentatively. “I-I-It feels like it belongs.” More than that, the sword felt like an extension of his own body.

“Like your mother, the weapon is a Key. A Key only certain Setian can be bonded to.”

Setian?
Kachien’s words to Jillian came flooding back and his stomach knotted. “What do the Setian have to do with us?”

“Most of Eldanhill’s Council are Setian. Most folk in Eldanhill are either Setian refugees or from one of the old clans before the Shadowbearer War.”

Ancel felt dizzy. He stopped in his tracks. “Th-That’s impossible. The Setian no longer exist.” A nudge from Charra set his legs moving again.

“Oh, we do,” Galiana said. “But you and most others have always been taught differently. Seventy years of teaching such a thing all across Denestia can beget such a belief.”

“The Devout?” Ancel whispered, wide-eyed.

“Yes. You’ve always been the smartest of my students.” The pride in Galiana’s voice was plain. “That’s but one of their roles.”

Ancel swallowed. How much of what he’d learned had been a fabrication? “If we’re Setian, why hasn’t he Tribunal killed us? Surely they know?”

“They do, but they need us as we need them.”

“Why?”

“How has the Tribunal ruled for nearly a thousand years?”

In his mind, Ancel leafed through books on Tribunal politics. “They maintain a hold and involvement in Granadian politics, through the use of Ashishin to enhance everything from inventions, education, trade, crops, mining to health to even military stability. By establishing the Streamean religion here in Granadia, they united the once feuding kingdoms under a common premise of enlightenment through worship while still maintaining individuality. They quelled any upstart rebellions, destroyed the shade in numerous wars, flung back every invasion from the Erastonians to the Everlanders, and Granadia has prospered ever since.

“They appoint new Exalted every fifty years who are staunch backers of all it means to be a High Ashishin of the Tribunal. Through rigorous trials, their Order is maintained. None can become Exalted without the trials.”

“True, indeed. But it is more than just an appointment. The Exalted have been the same High Ashishin for the past five hundred years.”

Ancel frowned. She couldn’t mean the same exact people could she?

As if sensing his uncertainty, Galiana continued, “The Tribunal procured a method to extend their lives. But not without a price. Their method required them to take a life, but it cost them their youth, their vitality. The need only increased with each use. In the end, driven by this need, the Tribunal started war after war to procure the necessary sela. Sometimes, they resorted to attacking villages in the wilds of Ostania under the guise of slavers or raiders.”

Speechless, Ancel could only stare. Galiana’s words made the Tribunal out to be much like the shadelings.

“Until they discovered we Setian possessed the secret of using essences absorbed and reproduced by kinai to halt aging altogether. Then came the Shadowbearer War. In return for our safety, for the preservation of our race, we agreed to serve the Tribunal, providing them with our Forging.”

Ancel’s fist clenched on the sword’s hilt. In essence, his people were little more than slaves. He looked over to Kachien, but she showed no reaction as if all this was old news to her. “What has all this got to do with my mother and the shadelings?”

“Immortality is a thing all dream of, even those who serve the shade. Our Forging is the closest thing to it. In our Forging, your mother is the Key. Like few among the Setian and other races, she possesses a special Gift. As do you. Her Gift is the ability to Forge every essence into one to form Prima Materium. The primordial origin of Mater itself. It’s a requirement for the life extension to work. Her Gift is unique.”

Galiana stopped and turned to Ancel. She held his gaze. “Not only does the shade want her for this, but they seek you, Ancel. You see, the Setian are the descendants of the Eztezians.”

This time, Kachien started.

Ancel’s mind reeled.

“Kachien told me your power manifested. The colors you see around any living thing is called an aura. It signifies the Mater possessed by that creature. With it, you can identify anything from lifeline to intention, good to evil. And that’s just the cusp of what I know. No one knows what else you can do. According to the Chronicles, such power shows in those who become Eztezian Guardians. If a Bloodline Affinity is perfected, such a person’s mind can be delved into and provide the locations of the Chroniclers—the great men and women who could see all events and possibilities, past, present, and future. In turn, this would lead to the discovery of the remainder of the Eztezian Guardians.

“We could not only face another Great Divide if they are unsealed, but we must consider that a way has been discovered to use the Eztezians to break the seals they placed on the Nether. The very seals which have already been weakening. We know the Tribunal learned their Forge from one of the few Skadwaz who escaped the sealing three thousand years ago. But we never knew if we had destroyed them all until recently. We—

A screeching wail resonated through the air, followed by several screams. Charra’s loud, grunting bark answered.

The wail and screams came from the direction of the winery.

Ancel broke into a run.

CHAPTER 49

The thrill of battle energy surged through Ryne. He, Sakari, Irmina, Jerem, Varick, and Refald stood at the front of the army massed to depart below the Vallum of Light. The flood of auras from the tens of thousands of soldiers filled his vision in waves.

Jerem had brought an entire legion of crimson-garbed Ashishin. One cohort accompanied Ryne’s group destined to defend Castere. The other nine cohorts were stationed with Clovis, Strom, and the other Knight Captains for their defense of Cendos and Bastair. Ryne’s group consisted of an additional two legions of infantry led by Varick and Refald. The clink of armor and weapons and the mutterings of thousands of voices ran down the ranks as soldiers shifted impatiently while they waited.

“All are in order,” Varick said.

“Good,” Jerem said, his wrinkled face a mask of concentration. “Remember, allow the Ashishin to engage first.”

“I’d still rather you be there to command them and to help,” Varick said, ready to argue once more that having a High Ashishin with his men would be invaluable.

“There are other more pressing developments that need tending to. Rest assured, my Ashishin will follow whatever commands you give.”

Varick bowed.

“Ashishin, prepare,” Jerem called, his voice reflecting the strain of whatever he did.

Ryne reached through his Scripts to touch his Matersense. All around him, he felt every Ashishin do the same. He immediately fled into the calm center of his mind, locking away both his bloodlust and the warring voices. His battle energy built to a sweet resonance to match his thumping heart. A grim smile parted his lips.

“We depart,” Jerem declared.

As before, first came the tearing sound as if the world itself around them ripped. Wind howled. The air in front of them coalesced until a slash formed, and the falling sensation struck.

Seconds later, there was a deafening roar. The ground below them heaved. Lightning split the air. Fire lit the night, and heat washed over them in waves. Ryne squinted. Men and animals screamed.

They stood on a wall lit by sputtering torches, lamps, and dying flames. Not just any wall. The battlements of Castere’s Inner Ring.

Blue armored Astocan soldiers covered the ground, many with gaping wounds, some groaning and others shuddering in the final throes of death. Among them were Amuni’s Children, their black armor showing great rents that oozed bodily fluids. Darkwraiths and wraithwolves stood out among the dead and wounded; the former like slimy puddles in the shape of men. The reek of spilled innards and burnt flesh was still fresh.