Leviathan's Blood (58 page)

‘In other words,’ Zaifyr said, stepping in front of his injured brother, ‘you want to rely upon fear.’

Her laughter still held its sweet lie of innocence. ‘I will claim you as well as my betrayer, all the brothers together.’

Zaifyr had begun to let his power flow into the dead around him, but he paused. Something in her words had caught a hold in him, had allowed for a moment of uncertainty to find a perch in his
mind. ‘Where is Aelyn?’

‘I had a vision.’ The child ignored him, the smile on her face fading as her lips straightened. ‘It was after your trial that it came to me, a thread of fate revealed. I saw
you, Qian, standing on the deck of a Yeflam ship. The sight of it brought me a great sense of foreboding. Behind you were the Floating Cities, but they lay wrecked, and yet were complete. My vision
would shift between the broken pillars and sunken cities and that of an intact and whole country. Yet, as I drew closer, it became clear to me that Yeflam was in ruins. A sense of dread started to
overcome me and I was drawn to the very centre of the wreckage. Drawn here, in fact, to where Nale once sat. But once here I was drawn beneath the water, but when I tried to enter it, I could not.
In the reflection of the water, however, I could see myself. I stared at it for some time until I began to hear a name spoken from the depths of the ocean, a name spoken by my image. I could not
hear it properly, but I know that it is mine.’

‘You did not answer his question,’ Jae’le said from behind him. ‘Where is Aelyn?’

‘Not here,’ the child said simply.

It was the creature who held the huge spiked mace who attacked first.

He let out a bellow, and Zaifyr saw the ancient dead within curl throughout the body, giving it a strength that it would not otherwise have had as it leapt into the air, lifting the ugly weapon
high . . . but Zaifyr, his power flooding into the bodies of a pair of haunts, saw two cold, barely formed figures emerge in the air next to the creature. Their cold hands wrapped around his arms
and tore the mace from his grasp, before the creature was thrown into the ground.

‘Lor Jix,’ he said, flooding his power through the words, reaching down through the dark ocean quickly and sharply, ‘it is time.’

He received no answer but for the brittle coldness that flooded through him, a chill that, he saw with a grim pleasure, went through the child as well. Anger straightened out the lines of her
face and, above them, he saw the sky bulge as the dark mass pressed against the reality that it was not part of. But as it did, the first of five tall mastheads began to rise beneath the feet of
the child. It forced her to take a step backwards to avoid being impaled, just as it forced Zaifyr and his brothers to do the same. Slowly, the masts continued to rise, outlined by a pale, broken
light. From each, long pieces of rope led down to the thick rails that edged a massive deck. There a large, square cabin rested at the stern, behind a wheel that was easily the size of two men. At
it stood a solitary figure, a short, ugly man who radiated a cold fury similar to the three creatures who stood around the child. Yet his feet appeared to rise from the ship’s deck and, as it
continued to lift into the night sky, as more and more of the mammoth vessel was revealed, as a ship greater than some icebergs rose, more and more men and women appeared on its decks. Finally, the
last of the hull lifted through the stone of Nale and the ship that Zaifyr had glimpsed in broken halves on the bottom of the ocean rose full and complete into the night sky.

It rose into a sky that was cracking apart, a sky that was giving way to the darkness behind it. As it did, Lor Jix appeared beside Zaifyr.

It was from his awful voice that the order to attack the child was given.

Bueralan pressed forward, his sword leading in a series of quick jabs that forced the Innocent into a pattern of defence until, finally, a slippery parry allowed Ren to gain an
opportunity to thrust in return and stop momentum, but the bottom of Bueralan’s sword caught the blade and flipped it up before battering it to the side with a wide slash that caused Ren to
move backwards. It was a small victory, but against a warrior of the Innocent’s skill, small victories began the path to victory, and Bueralan, stepping up the speed of his own attacks, felt
the moment seep into his muscles, into his movements, and the rhythm of violence that he had not felt for such a long time returned to him. A low thrust forced Ren into a block, and a cut at his
waist saw him move to the right, but it was Bueralan’s charge that caught the Innocent by surprise, and the saboteur’s blade sliced across the side of Ren’s face as he dropped
beneath a slash that would have easily crashed into another man’s skull. Bueralan followed with a series of controlled cuts, but as Ren came to his feet, a solid block turned to a powerful
thrust and Bueralan was forced to step back, moments before a riderless horse thundered past.

‘We are not alone, not any more,’ Aela Ren said, his sword held low as he continued to move to his right. ‘We can end this now.’

‘I’m just starting to hit my stride.’ Bueralan held his sword behind him as he moved to his right. ‘Maybe I’ll take an ear next.’

‘We have come a long way to hear you speak.’

‘Maybe a tongue.’

Ren did not step back from his charge, but rather met each blow. Each block and parry he made picked up speed, as if he had been learning from Bueralan, mirroring the Saan who had stood around
the Innocent a week ago and watched his battle with one of their own. Bueralan met his speed, however, and when he could not raise his weapon in defence, he moved to dodge the attacks that the
Innocent made. At one point, he dropped low to cut in a wide circle at the shins of the other man. Aela Ren leapt over the sword and Bueralan caught his sword in a block on the way down and drove
his fist into Ren’s chest, beneath the crossbow bolt. The Innocent grunted in pain and Bueralan punched him again, and then a third time, before the Innocent grabbed his shirt and dropped him
in an ugly flip over his back. Ren’s foot came crashing down onto his chest and his breath burst from him. A second blow cracked his ribs, but Bueralan knocked the other foot out from under
the other man and came to his feet, his sword parrying a thrust. In desperation, he tried to turn it into more, tried to turn the parry into a thrust, and instead, the sharp edge of Ren’s
sword cut deep into the side of his chest.

Bueralan’s left hand tightened on Ren’s sword arm, trapping the blade in place. With a shift of his weight, he crashed his head down again, but Ren, ready for it, shifted and the
left side of his face and eye hit awkwardly and bloodily on his skull. With a grunt, Bueralan released Ren’s trapped arm and spun around, his sword arcing through the air to slash down on the
Innocent, only to find that he had moved through him. Bueralan felt the man’s boot crash into the back of his calf, trying to shatter the bone, and his foot twisted as he moved out of the
blow. Stumbling, he left Ren’s reach and came upon the body of Pueral, who lay on her back, her armour and stomach sliced open, revealing a dark, bloody mess.

‘You holding back?’ Bueralan turned back to the Innocent, his left hand going to the wound on his chest, his leg protesting the weight he put on it. ‘You sliced her open. You
shouldn’t find it a problem to do the same for me.’

‘You are making it difficult.’ Aela Ren spat a mouthful of blood on the grass and grasped the bolt in his chest. With a grunt, he pulled it free and tossed it onto the ground.
‘But as I said, we have come a long way to hear what you will say.’

Though one eye was blurred with blood, Bueralan could see men and women standing on the edges of the field. They emerged from the smoke and fire of the horizon but were little more than shadows.
He could see the silhouettes of riderless horses both behind and in front and he assumed that the soldiers who had begun the fight with him were now dead. But one – one of them drew his eye,
a horse whose silhouette gave way to a smoky grey, and who had, he knew, carried Taela and Orlan.

‘What is her name?’ Ren asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, a familiar sadness filling him. ‘I’ve never known.’

‘You are lying.’

His charge was a slow, lumbering run and it did not surprise Ren. The Innocent battered aside his thrust and cut high in response; Bueralan’s block tore at the skin on his right side and
he pulled back from pressing the blow from the pain. It was all the opportunity that Ren needed, and he pushed Bueralan, whose slow blows and parries saw cuts and nicks appear on his arms, lining
his tattoos. Yet, he did not step back. He knew that he had lost, but he kept pushing. He knew that the Innocent could have killed him twice. He could have thrust into his stomach or cut through
the front of his throat, and the realization saw Bueralan begin to hammer his sword with both hands holding the hilt, reduced to a novice through his pain, through the futility.

He should never have left the cathedral, never left the side of his blood brother, never left his friends. He should
not
be here! His sword sweeps became wild and reckless and he knew
that he was exposed, that Aela Ren was stepping to his left and right and beneath, his gaze holding to Bueralan as if he was seeing a truth buried beneath his flesh and bone. Finally, a wild swing
forced Ren to bring his sword up in a block and, quicker than Bueralan could react to, Ren rolled his blade and trapped the saboteur’s sword arm.

Then, in a swift, hard set of movements, Aela Ren broke Bueralan’s forearm, drove the end of his elbow into his face and swept him off his feet.

A moment later, the Innocent’s sword speared into the ground next to his head.

‘Enough,’ the scarred man said, releasing it. ‘I have waited long enough, Bueralan Le. You will tell me her name.’

Eira entered the room slowly, a chilled air preceding her.

She no longer dressed in the pale, elegant gowns that Ayae had seen her wear in the Enclave, but leather armour that had been dyed white and stitched together by thick dark-grey thread. On her
left hip sat a white leather sheath with grey straps holding the hilt of her sword in place. The length of the blade disappeared under a dark-grey cloak lined with white fur that fell over her
shoulders, and her hair had been tied back, giving Eira the appearance of a woman younger than she normally seemed. But the look she gave to everyone in the room as she walked through the open door
was anything but that of an insolent youth.

‘It has felt like dozens of years to reach this moment,’ the Cold Witch said, speaking to Ayae as she approached. ‘It is grief that allows time to slow, don’t you
think?’

‘No,’ she replied.

‘Perhaps you have never truly grieved, then?’

Ayae shrugged off the insult. For a brief moment, she had thought that the Keeper had been invited, but none in the room had reacted well to her presence – she saw Lady Wagan’s hand
fall to Sinae’s arm to silence him before he spoke, heard Lian Alahn’s bodyguard straighten from the wall he leant against – and the tension rose with each step that Eira made
towards her. In response, Ayae remained where she was, even as the brief chill sank into her skin and forced Lian Alahn to step away from her.

‘Would you believe I did not even know that Benan Le’ta would be here tonight?’ While the Keeper spoke, Ayae saw Caeli step into the empty doorway, but as she returned to the
room, the guard shook her head slightly, revealing that she had seen neither the man who had led the three of them up to the room, nor another of the Keepers. ‘I was given one task, but I
would be remiss to pass up this one. Our little Traders’ Union official who ran. He has been quite the asset to us – or at least he was until he fled with the money we gave
him.’

‘I never – I have been accused of many things,’ the fat merchant began.

‘Oh, hush, Benan,’ Eira replied, her gaze holding Ayae’s. ‘A despicable man will do a lot for power, if it is within his reach. He will betray his ideals and he’ll
sell out his friends. He will do it so quickly you will wonder if he ever had friends. But it is when he loses his spine for it, when he runs away, that I quickly lose interest in him. Though I
suppose since you tore through Bnid Gaerl and his soldiers, some people might almost forgive him.’

‘But not you,’ Ayae said. ‘Right?’

‘What good is a puppet if it runs away?’ The woman smiled faintly. ‘Still, it is my own fault, really. I had pushed my hand to the top of my puppet and felt the rotten cotton.
I discovered it when I convinced him that Lady Wagan was simply too dangerous to be free in Yeflam.’

Ayae felt the floorboards creak beneath her weight. ‘You probably didn’t even need Kaqua for that,’ she said.

‘I simply promised to support his interests.’ Eira turned towards Le’ta. He had pushed himself into the corner of the couch, his bruised face a mask of terror, his chained
hands raised in defence before him. He began to whisper as the Keeper approached him, but Ayae could not make out his words, and soon she could not see his face. ‘You may find this hard to
believe, but the Enclave has been paralysed in debate about Qian and Jae’le for nearly a hundred years. It began after a cart bearing a young child came to one of our ports. It was of no real
interest to us, except for the sensation that was reported by Kaqua when he came upon her. It was he who reported the child to us, describing what it is you feel when you stand beside the child
now. It was to him that the first of her delegates came to see when they arrived in Yeflam, but he was a lone voice when it came to her divinity, for the child had done nothing to compare to the
Five Kingdoms. Aelyn and her brothers had done more that spoke to the rule of gods, and many of us thought it was only a matter of time until Jae’le and Qian began to assert themselves again.
A lot of the Enclave thought we would fall in with them, when they did. Aelyn did not favour that. Neither did Kaqua. Aelyn said that they simply would not return to power. After a while, he began
to suggest that there was another power. It was hard to support at first. The child’s delegates did not help: they were nothing more than witches and warlocks and ignorant of much in the
world. Fo and Bau believed that the lack of education was the most obvious flaw in the child’s divinity. They argued very strongly about that. It was not until Qian killed them in Mireea that
it began to change for me. Some of the others had already come around to it, but for me, it was their deaths. It was Fo’s in particular. It broke my heart and I saw in it something I had not
seen since I was a child. I saw my mortality. Many of us did.’