After placing him on the ground delicately, they moved from one headless warrior to the next and repeated the process. With the tenth body in hand, Ryna heard someone calling Eyrie from the direction of the Cynmeren camp. A scrid approached, running sideways along the wall of the canyon, and on its back sat Haemlan. The animal scuttled to the ground beside them and came to stop. “It’s good to see that you’re both still standing,” Haemlan said with a smile as he leapt down from the scrid. “The Voice of War sent me to find you. She wants to speak with the two of you immediately.”
Eyrie dusted off her hands before crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Leaving the dead suspended here is disrespectful. Surely the Voice of War wants them taken down.”
“I’m certain she does,” Haemlan replied slowly. “But she also wants to understand everything that transpired with the High Conduit, and that is far more urgent. I advise you not to make her wait any longer.”
“These people deserve to be returned to Cynmere!” Eyrie shouted, which drew surprised looks from both Haemlan and Ryna. The Bloodsister angrily wiped tears from her eyes as she stared defiantly at Haemlan, then he suddenly nodded with a sympathetic frown.
“Forgive me. I forget at times that you were old enough to remember when your parents were taken from you. These warriors—faceless, nameless—they represent everything that you lost. It’s understandable why you care so much about what happens to them now.” Haemlan walked close to Eyrie and placed a hand on her shoulder. An instant later, she leapt up and wrapped her arms around him.
“I’ll go,” Eyrie said, her voice trembling.
“And I’ll remain here to continue reclaiming our lost brothers and sisters,” Haemlan replied. “Take the scrid. I can walk back when this task is done.”
Eyrie nodded, as a look of hardened focus replaced the sadness in her eyes. She climbed atop the scrid and dropped the cage to the sand. “Let’s get back to the camp, Ryna,” she declared.
48
A cold wind rustled through the large sheets of canvas suspended over Keltin’s sick bed; as they fluttered, momentary bursts of sunlight flickered across his eyes with annoying regularity. This bed was the first place he’d felt comfortable in many days, however, so it was easy for him to ignore such a trivial inconvenience. He tried to remain focused on everything that was pleasant about his current situation, but his peace was shattered within the span of each breath. The swollen skin on Keltin’s chest and arms protested as he drew in air, and the throbbing pain once again forced itself to the forefront of his thoughts.
During the next fleeting moment of solace, Keltin glanced around the spacious tent and found its only other occupant—Ansund—on a sick bed a few strides away. He thought to call over to him, but then Keltin noticed that the Draeden’s uncovered eye was closed. That’s a first, Keltin thought, realizing that he had never before seen Ansund actually asleep. The entrance flap rustled a moment later and two of the Handsisters returned, this time accompanied by an older woman. They each carried small jars and hurried towards Keltin with a sense of urgency.
“This will bring you pain, but it will keep the infection from festering any longer,” the old Handsister explained in her creaking voice as she lifted one of the jars. The two Handsisters carefully cut away the remains of Keltin’s shirt and pulled free all of the embedded fibers as gently as they could. The older woman’s face was a mixture of sympathy and amazement as she looked over Keltin’s lacerated chest and arms. “I warn most people that this will burn worse than the fire did,” she said. “In your case…well, I’ll be surprised if you even feel it. If nothing else, at least it will diminish the scarring somewhat.”
Keltin nodded tiredly. “Do what you need to do. I’m ready.” The old Handsister then opened the first jar and spread a clear gel onto Keltin’s arms. Its smell was strong and warm; the vapors flowed into Keltin’s lungs and felt as though they somehow made breathing easier. From the second jar, one of the Handsisters poured a fine yellow powder that clung to the top of the gel. Wherever it touched, it seeped into the first substance amid a cloud of miniscule bubbles. This reaction continued into Keltin’s skin—he could feel it, but in most places it was little more than a dull tugging sensation. As each burned area was treated, the other Handsister covered the mixture with what looked and smelled like small bits of moss. Then it was all wrapped loosely in a layer of clean bandages and the three women stepped back.
“The feeling may return with time,” the old Handsister said. “If it does and the pain is severe, call for us. Otherwise, let the mixture do its work.” Keltin thanked them and they exited through the tent flap, all three of them wearing concerned frowns. There were hushed voices just outside who seemed to have been waiting for the group. Keltin couldn’t distinguish many of their words, but he heard the old woman say “I’ve done what I can” in response to some question. The way she said it not only conveyed frustration, but also an unsettling note of helplessness. Keltin looked over his new bandages and tried to ignore the idea that some ailment worse than hundreds of burns could be waiting just beneath the surface.
His anxiety was short-lived, though, because within seconds of the Handsisters leaving, a new group entered the tent. There were seven of them in total—four men, three women—all elderly, and each wearing a unique mixture of clothing and colors. Only one man wore the armor that Keltin associated with the fighters of Cynmere, though it was partially covered by a dark green sash around his waist. Two of the men wore field clothes: one in a set of soot-stained brown, the other a frail looking man clad in dark grey reminiscent of the Shroud Legion. A large woman entered wearing a green apron above white robes, while another spindly woman entered in the simple white robes Keltin had come to identify as belonging to the Handsisters. Last to enter were a tall woman in a light grey robe and a man in the hooded tan robe that marked him as one of the Guided.
Before Keltin had time to study this group further, the Guided spoke. “I am Leomar, Council Guide of the Cynmeren.”
Keltin suddenly realized why this group seemed so familiar to him even though he had never met any of them. “You’re the Elder Council,” he said as he looked from one face to the next. “…Most of it,” he added when he counted only seven members instead of eight. Wyand and Carnan had told stories about these people and explained their significance within Cynmeren culture. Based on the descriptions they had provided, it was easy for Keltin to identify who represented each Kindred Order. But what do they want from me? Keltin wondered.
Leomar smiled. “That’s very perceptive, especially considering your current state.” The tent flap opened suddenly and a woman clad in armor strode into the tent; based on her age and the weathered look of confidence on her face, Keltin knew this had to be the Voice of War. To his surprise, she was followed closely by Ryna, Eyrie, Cailla, and Aemetta. Keltin smiled when he saw all of them—Ryna especially—but his happiness faded when he noticed the wound on Aemetta’s neck. Ryna and Eyrie wore frowns as well, however theirs stemmed from confusion more than concern; clearly, they hadn’t expected to find the entire Elder Council gathered and waiting for them. Aemetta appeared intrigued by the situation, while Cailla’s eyes only spoke of withering exhaustion.
“Is this everyone?” the Council Guide asked, and the Voice of War nodded. “Cailla, it is wonderful to see you alive and free from Dism Slyde’s influence. I don’t yet know your role in all of this, but we will get to that soon. I wanted to speak to all of you at once so the Council can gain a full understanding of events in as little time as possible,” he explained. “When we first arrived, Tilia briefly attempted to describe all that had transpired in Dism Slyde. As soon as Ansund returned, though, he quickly became her sole focus—and rightly so. In the few minutes that he was awake, he murmured something to the Voice of War about ‘Keltin’s warning’ and a ‘Venerate attack’. I’m hopeful you know what that means.”
All eyes turned to Keltin, who thought for a moment before deciding how to explai
n what he had witnessed in the High Conduit’s chambers. “I do,” he answered slowly. “Everything changed when the cofa was destroyed,” he began, then he went on to detail his capture and punishment under the High Conduit’s cruel oversight. He explained how he had watched the Penitent Faithful fall apart mentally and physically on the plain below the Holy Spire, then he went on to describe what the Conduit said would happen next. “He had completely surrendered to the idea that the Cultivators—the Venerates—would eradicate humanity as punishment for losing the cofa. Beyond the ever-present rage in his eyes, there was genuine fear as he spoke to me about the death we would all face. He blamed me for all of it, and I don’t believe his feelings of hopelessness were a lie.”
The members of the Council frowned to themselves and to one another until Leomar spoke again. “What makes you think—with all of his other lies—that this one statement held truth?”
“Because I’ve witnessed the ruthlessness of the Cultivators. If they feel they are losing control, they will lash out,” Keltin replied. “Wyand shared the Thoughtcaster with me, as I’m certain he did with all of you, so I know of the first purge of humanity that took place in the time of Grigg.” A thought suddenly struck him. “Why isn’t Wyand at this meeting? Or Hirst? Carnan? They were all part of the group that destroyed the cofa, just as I was.”
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as the Council members all looked to Tilia. “You were the last to see any of them, Keltin,” the Voice of War said grimly. “Their whereabouts are unknown.”
Keltin was stunned. “I hoped they would be here,” he said quietly.
The man in dark grey took a few shaky steps towards Keltin’s bed, then leaned in close and smiled warmly. “If we are to believe the Visions at all, that boy will be back. Just give him time.” The Voice of Peace backed away, then stopped suddenly as though remembering something. “You omitted an important part in your story, and it’s a question at the forefront of the Council’s thoughts. How did such a small group infiltrate Dism Slyde and destroy the cofa in one night?”
Since Keltin and Aemetta were the only two people in the tent who knew the full story, they took turns describing each portion of it. Neither of them could draw a full breath easily, so it became a bit of a game for them as they watched all eyes in the room shift from Keltin to Aemetta and back again. Keltin began with the battle in the mountains, and the sudden appearance of the Cult of the Guided. This surprised the Elder Council, who became dubious at the very mention of the Eyeless. When Aemetta described Crolun Raigh, though, they all fell into captivated silence and their skeptical looks faded.
After informing them that the Thoughtcaster had been taken, Leomar was especially distraught. He insisted that it was impossible for the device to remain lost, but he wouldn’t go into further detail. At last, Keltin described the discovery of the great ocean to the north and the plan to destroy the cofa was revealed to the Elder Council. When he did this, he requested the large map from the Conduit’s chambers and Ryna and Eyrie spread it over his sick bed. He pointed to the approximate location of Crolun Raigh, then drew a line with his fingers to the northern edge of Dism Slyde. Finding that he had no breath remaining, Keltin fell silent and Aemetta completed the story. The Council marveled at her description of the frozen lands to the north and of the terrifying things living therein. Then came the strike on Dism Slyde itself, the destruction of the cofa, and the fracturing of the small group.
There were many thoughtful nods when Aemetta finished. “Impressive,” the Voice of Peace said in his sweet, high-pitched tone, and the rest of the Council seemed to agree. Tilia removed the large map from Keltin’s bed and studied it intently near the entrance.
Leomar was the next to speak. “Since you, Keltin, and you, Cailla, are no longer trapped within Dism Slyde, and since I’ve seen the Penitent Faithful flood into this camp throughout the past hour, I assume more has changed beyond the loss of the cofa. What of the High Conduit?”
“Dead,” Cailla said coldly. The Council stared at her, waiting for her to elaborate. “I killed him,” she added with a shrug.
“That explains why Tilia brought you here, then,” the Council Guide said as he blinked away his surprise and shook his head. “Questioning the High Conduit as a prisoner would have been of much greater value than burning his corpse, but we are past that now. I am certain that justice was done.”
“Agreed,” The Voice of War responded immediately as she looked up from the map. “With the freeing of the Penitent Faithful, our task in Dism Slyde is complete, thanks to all of you.” She beamed proudly as she looked from Keltin to Ryna, Eyrie, Aemetta, and Cailla. Then Tilia’s eyes passed over Ansund’s slumbering form, and the pride in them was momentarily tinged with pained sadness. “The final task is before us—the stain of the Cultivators still lingers, and we will remove it in honor of all who have fallen. We must advance on the Lake of Skulls immediately.”
The elderly Handsister scoffed at Tilia’s bold statement. “This camp is in no condition to move across the Plateau Desert. You have more injured than healthy among your ranks. Look at him!” She pointed to Keltin, then her hand shifted to the other sick bed. “Look at your son!”
An icy silence followed as Tilia struggled to contain whatever thoughts of violence raged within her mind. Keltin braced himself for further bloodshed until the Voice of War spoke again. “I fought for twelve turnings to bring my son to the truth—do you really think I would do something now that would needlessly jeopardize his safety? My actions may confuse you, Okima, but I’m a mother, and that is something you will never understand.” The Handsister pressed her lips together tightly but offered no reply to what Keltin assumed was a scathing insult.
The Voice of War continued in a louder tone as she addressed the rest of the group, her fervor fueled by anger. “It will be safer for all of us if we strike at the Cultivators before they have time to attack us. Undoubtedly, they will have devised some new and wicked means of eliminating humanity—if we contain it and destroy it in Aldhagen, then we will prevent another disaster from spreading across this world as the haugaeldr did before. That was the mistake of long ago: had the people of Aldhagen known of the threat posed not only by the haugaeldr but by the Cultivators themselves, they would have had a chance to resist. We know the threat, and we now have the chance to end this.”
The Council Guide looked from Ansund to Tilia. “I agree with your assessment, Bloodsister, but Okima is correct—many of these people will not be ready to move for several days. How do you suggest we go about this relocation?”
Before Tilia could respond, Ansund surprised everyone by offering his own idea. “Each has his task. All serve a purpose,” he said as he lifted himself to a seated position with a grunt. “Despite all the differences between our cultures, that is the concept that unifies us; and yet you already overlook the capabilities of the Penitent Faithful. You are accustomed to moving everything using your scrid, but there is a better way. The nysk carts are built to provide gentle transport for even the most sensitive cargo, and I know there are at least five carts at your disposal. Keep your scrid for maneuvering and stealth, and use the carts to move the injured to our new combined encampment. This way, their treatment can continue even while they are in transit.”
“Nonsense,” Handsister Okima said crossly. “In the short time I’ve been in this desert, I’ve learned that its lack of resources turns even the most basic healing tasks into a constant struggle. If we move in any direction, it should be back to Cynmere. Our best supplies and healers can be gathered there and there alone.”
Keltin began to panic as he watched several members of the Council considering the Handsister’s plan. Though he was hesitant to interrupt such a powerful group, there was one aspect of the situation that had not yet been addressed and he could not let it go ignored. “If we leave, they all die—everyone in Aldhagen, everyone in Locboran. What was the purpose of liberating Dism Slyde if we then choose to abandon the people still
trapped with the Cultivators?”
No one had an answer to Keltin’s question, and even the old Handsister frowned in thought as she mulled over his words. At length, Leomar cleared his throat. “We have enough information to consider. The Elder Council will convene and advise our plan forward,” he declared, then he looked away from the Council members to Keltin and the others. “To all of you who brought us to this point through blood and sacrifice: thank you. Your efforts will never be forgotten.” With a final solemn nod, Leomar exited the tent followed closely by the rest of the Council.
Keltin blinked as the sudden burst of afternoon sunlight faded, then he turned his attention to the women standing at the foot of his bed. He pointed to Aemetta’s neck, but before he could ask about her injury, she answered the question burning in his eyes. “Arrow,” she said with a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment.
Keltin nodded in understanding, then gestured towards the wounds on his torso, arms, and neck. “Knife,” he replied, and Aemetta winced sympathetically. A sudden yawn pulled at the taught skin along his jaw, and Keltin once more considered sleep. Ansund’s eye was already closed again, which further reinforced that this was a perfect time for Keltin to rest too.
“We should get the two of you back to your own beds,” Eyrie said to Aemetta and Cailla. “Ryna, come find me once you’re done here.” There were several hurried farewells as she ushered the others outside, leaving Ryna and Keltin alone.
“You look awful,” Ryna said teasingly, but as she stepped closer, the faint light in the tent shimmered against unshed tears in the corners of her eyes.
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