When the Heavens Fall (64 page)

It was Kanon.

 

P
ART
IV

R
IVER
OF
L
OST
S
OULS

 

C
HAPTER
19

E
BON STARED
at his reflection in the dome of death-magic. A shadow of a beard covered his cheeks and jaw, and dark hairs had sprouted across his shaven head. His eyes had lost their mark of spirit-possession, yet they still retained a haunted cast, for while the Vamilians were gone from his mind, when he now closed his eyes he saw the faces of those he had left behind in Majack. Were they ghosts now that they should appear to him like this? Or were they no more than his fears made manifest, a reminder of what he stood to lose if he failed?
If they are not lost to me already.

The trees closest to the dome had been cut to pieces by the magical construction to leave broken branches scattered across the ground. Any wind-borne leaves that came into contact with the dome burst into flames. Beyond, Ebon could make out the shapes of ruined buildings among the trees. All else was a blur.

Vale moved to stand alongside him. There were dark bags beneath the Endorian's eyes and an uncharacteristic slump to his shoulders. “Looks like someone doesn't want us here.”

“Too bad.”

“You going to cut a way through? Won't that draw the stiffs to us?”

“Perhaps. Though I suspect this will not be the first time the dome has been breached.”

“Any of those other breaches nearby? Can we follow the wall round?”

“We do not have time. I sense … urgency … from the goddess.”

“And?”

“And that's all. I have found her to be more possessive of her secrets than even Mottle was.”

Vale studied him for a moment. “You know what you're doing?”

Ebon read the unasked question in his eyes. “You are wondering if it's still me in here?”

“Is it?”

“For now. If the goddess were to possess me, her fate would be tied to mine.”

Vale snorted. “Meaning you're in the firing line while the bitch hides in your shadow.”

“It is a risk worth taking, Vale. Even you would not deny that. What chance do we have without her help now that Mottle and Ambolina are gone?”

The Endorian grunted, but did not argue the point. “Just keep your eyes open,” he said. “When the time comes, cut her loose before she does it to you.”

Ebon ran a hand across his head. He had been thinking the same, but how did he outwit a goddess? A goddess to whom he was oath-bound. A goddess who could read his mind. He felt a whisper of amusement from Galea. “You do not,” came her reply. “Now, enough of this foolishness. We are running out of time.”

“Time? Time for what?”

But the goddess had already withdrawn.

Shaking his head, Ebon raised his hands with palms facing the dome. As at the bridge he felt ice run along his veins as Galea's sorcery flowed through him. A cut formed in the black wall, the edges peeling back to leave a gash several paces across, sorcery crackling about its sides. Ebon looked through. In the distance, a vast domed structure rose above the treetops. Closer, he saw the ruins of scores of buildings, little more than crumbling walls and piles of rubble. An image came to him of the gatehouse destroyed by the Fangalar. Was Majack a city of the dead, too, now that the Vamilians had swept through it? Was this all he had left to go back to? “How long has it been since we entered the forest?” he asked Vale. “Nine days?”

“Ten.”

“The goddess said the palace still stood. That was four days ago. Could Reynes have held out all this time?”

Vale gave no response, but then Ebon had not expected him to. There were too many unknowns for the Endorian to form an opinion. Did the undead have another sorceress like the Fangalar, and if so was she stronger than those of Mottle's Adepts who still lived? How many of Reynes's troops had been able to retreat to the safety of the palace? And most important of all, what, if anything, had Galea done to aid the defense?

Footfalls sounded behind Ebon.

Garat Hallon spoke. “I see you've managed to cut a way through. Impressive. A pity you did not see fit to use your … abilities … when Ambolina faced the dwarf. A failure of courage, perhaps?”

“If I could have intervened,” Ebon said, “I would have.”

“Of course. How silly of me to have doubted you. Though I cannot help wondering whether you would find yourself similarly constrained if it were my life that hung in the balance.”

Vale barked a laugh. “How many times has he got to save your skin? Seems to me you're still in his debt from Majack.”

Garat's expression darkened. “Your dog needs a muzzle,” he said to Ebon.

Vale reached for his sword, but the king seized his arm. The Endorian stared at him for a few heartbeats, then shot a glance at the Sartorian. “That's two you now owe him.”

Garat ignored the remark, his gaze still on Ebon. “It appears your dog wants me dead. Now why, I ask myself? Surely not because he perceives me as a threat to your kingdom. Doubtless that will have fallen already.”

Ebon looked back through the rent in the dome. Magic flickered through the murk ahead, and a distant scream rang out. “Are you sure of that, Consel?” he said. “Have you not wondered at the source of my … abilities? The powers I can now call on?” He faced Garat. “The alliances I have forged?”

The Sartorian's attempt at a smile came out more as a grimace.

Then he turned at the sound of weapons being drawn. His soldiers were on their feet, peering between the trees to the north. His new tarda gestured for him to take cover.

Ebon cursed. Had the undead found another way across the river? Or had a second Vamilian force been lying in wait on this bank? If the enemy knew they were here, they might still slip away if the goddess could close the breach in the dome behind them after they passed through it.

Just then one of the consel's soldiers emerged from the trees. The man made a chopping motion with his right hand before pointing back the way he had come and holding up a single finger.

Ebon blinked.
Just one?

A voice became audible.

“Brute! Foul-tempered beast! Forward! Forward, Mottle commands! No, not that way…”

For the first time in days Ebon smiled.

*   *   *

Luker reached out with his senses to examine the thread of death-magic entering Kanon's chest, hoping he had imagined it, knowing he had not. When his gaze finally locked to his master's, he saw his fears confirmed in Kanon's bloodless skin and blue-tinged lips. Luker searched his eyes for some hint of recognition, of friendship even. There was none.

Kanon raised a hand, and the Vamilians closing in halted at the edge of the clearing.

A laugh sounded, and Luker turned to see Chamery advancing. Water dripped from the mage's hair and robes. Did he know who he was facing? If so, he clearly hadn't learned anything from the Black Tower's mauling on the night of the Betrayal. His power roared to life, black waves pouring from his hands to strike a Will-barrier in front of Kanon. The Guardian almost disappeared within a haze of shadow, his shield a pale outline in front of him. The tree stumps about him burst into flames and disintegrated.

Kanon stood unmoving, his gaze still on Luker. If Luker had thrown his weight behind Chamery at that moment, their combined powers might have cracked Kanon's defenses. Instead Luker just watched as his master gestured at Chamery and released his Will. The attack lifted the mage from his feet and hurled him across the glade. The mage hit a tree stump and flopped down into ankle-deep water, his sorcery winking out.

Luker heard Merin speak his name, but none of the words that came after. “Stay out of this,” he told the tyrin, dismounting with a splash.

As he approached Kanon, his slow steps were in marked contrast to the whir of his thoughts. He should not have been surprised, he knew, to find his master among the undead. Kanon had lost time in Arandas, yes, but he'd still left the city weeks before Luker left Hamis, and he would have had to crawl here for Luker to stand any chance of overtaking him. The whole thing seemed so obvious now. Kanon would never have left the forest empty-handed, and since Mayot remained in control of the undead and thus in possession of the Book …

Luker took a breath. It was, he realized, a truth he'd been hiding from for some time.

A part of his mind, though, still refused to believe. He could feel the force of Kanon's Will in the strength of his gaze. Among the surviving Guardians perhaps only Gill was more powerful, and a mere handful of others could claim parity. Senar Sol, maybe. Sekel Endrada. If Luker hadn't walked out on the Guardians—if he and Kanon had faced Mayot together—this would likely be over by now. No force on earth could stand against the two of them. No force ever had. His eyes narrowed.
Maybe there's still a way.

He inclined his head. “Master.”

“Luker,” Kanon said. The lines round his eyes had deepened since Luker last saw him.

“You don't look surprised to see me.”

“Mayot sensed your approach. He thought it would be amusing if he sent me to intercept you. A mistake he will come to regret.”

“Why?”

“Because you are going to beat me.”

“Glad one of us is sure of that.”

A hint of a smile crossed Kanon's face. “A crisis of confidence, my friend? Clearly a first time for everything.”

“Aye, maybe.” Luker nodded at Kanon's drawn sword. “But then, this'll be the first time we've played for keeps. What makes you so certain you know which side the coin will come down on?”

“Against you, my Will is at its weakest.”

“You reckon it's any easier for me?”

“Why not? You at least still have something to fight for. The Book of Lost Souls—”

“I'm not here for the Shroud-cursed Book. I came to find you.”

Kanon frowned. “It's too late for me, Luker. You must see that.”

“The thread holding you—”

“Cannot be broken.”

“Maybe together—”

“You don't understand,” Kanon cut in again. “Mayot has ordered me to kill you. The Book holds me in an iron fist. I don't have the strength to oppose it directly—it has taken all my Will just to give us this time to talk. Even now my resistance falters. Can you not feel it?”

Luker could. Kanon's power was closing round him like the coils of a boa snake. He focused his own Will, and the pressure eased a fraction. “If you can't help me cut the thread, I'll do it myself.”

“If you try, I will kill you.” Kanon raised his blade a handspan, then halted the movement with an effort that showed as a tremble in his sword arm. “Even if you succeed, you cannot bring me back. If my soul is freed, it will pass through Shroud's Gate. There's nothing you can do to stop that.”

Luker was finding it difficult to breathe. He needed space to think. “What happened to you?”

“We do not have time.”

“Tell me!”

Kanon shrugged. “I failed. Mayot is guarded by four undead Vamilian champions. Alone, I was no match for them.”

Alone.
“I should've been with you.”

The shake in Kanon's sword arm was becoming stronger. “But you were not. Do not follow that line of thought, Luker. It will only weaken your resolve. To defeat me, you must control your doubt, your remorse. Clear your mind.”

His words stirred in Luker a memory of his first days studying under Kanon on the Sun Road west of Bethin. His concentration slipped, and his master's Will tightened about him. A gasp escaped his lips. His ribs felt as if they would crack.

“You must fight me,” Kanon said.

“Fight? I can … hardly breathe.”

“Focus your Will.”

“I'm trying, damn you!”

“Anger will serve you no better than guilt.” Kanon paused, then said again, “You must fight me.”

Luker's face twisted.
As easy as that?
The thought of finding Kanon had been the one thing driving him since he had left Arkarbour. Now he was supposed to cross swords with him? True, he could not kill his master—Kanon was dead already—but to … incapacitate … him would just inflict suffering of a different kind. The invisible coils about him tightened again. “There must be … another way…”

“To save me? No, my friend.” Kanon looked over Luker's left shoulder. “But you can still save your companions.”

Luker had forgotten the others. He could hear Merin's and Jenna's horses snorting, but their riders remained as silent as if they were spellbound.
Jenna.
The pressure about Luker eased slightly, and he gulped in a lungful of air.

“Better,” Kanon said.

“There must be another way,” Luker repeated. “Of breaking Mayot's grip on you. If the threads can't be destroyed, what about the Book?”

His master smiled faintly. “To destroy the Book you must first kill Mayot.”

And to kill Mayot, I've first got to beat you, aye.
So his master had been trying to tell him, but Luker was not of a mind to listen. When he reached out again with his senses toward Kanon's thread of death-magic, though, his master shook his head and raised his sword. Luker swore. He should have found time before now to test the undead's threads more fully, for he still did not know whether it was possible to break the things. But then even if it could be done it would likely take all his concentration. And since Kanon had made it clear he would attack if Luker tried …

Luker bowed his head. He understood then what he had to do. Perhaps he could not restore Kanon to life, but there was at least a form of release he could grant him. Luker had always believed his quest would end when he found his master. Now it seemed that was not to be.