Acolyte's Underworld: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Empire of Resonance Book 4)

by L. W. Jacobs

  “So there is no pact between the gods?” Arten asked, leaning in.

  If his brother had been replaced by an archrevenant, the man clearly had no idea. But she could not risk Praet not being an archrevenant when she reached for the spear. She would have to kill him, and quickly.

  Which is what she’d wanted all along.

  Her legs came free and Ella swung them off the bed, arching her back and arms in a stretch. “If there is,” she said, left hand coming down on the handle of a broom that was not a broom, “then I guess I’m about to make a big mistake.”

  Power surged into her and she directed it all into a blast of air meant to break Praet’s neck.

  The wall disintegrated in a roar of air and uai. Praet’s body shot outward in a cloud of shattered wood.

  Arten stared at her in shock. “What—what did you do?”

  “I lied again,” Ella said, sending much more carefully controlled blasts of air at him and the thug. “I’m not working for an archrevenant. I am one.”

  They slammed against the walls, losing consciousness. The building groaned beneath her, floor shifting. Currents—nothing in Brokewater was built to withstand this kind of damage, and Zaza was in here with all her tauera. Fear clutched Ella and she leapt through the gaping hole into the street, breaking her fall with air. If she killed any of them she would never forgive herself.

  Stone. She could make stone, like they’d done to shore up the cottage outside Aran. Ella imagined it, and suddenly the entire north wall of the leaning building was solid granite.

  The groaning stopped. “Thank the gods,” Ella breathed, but she wasn’t done. She had to make sure.

  Ella struck resonance, but not like a normal timeslip struck it. Ella struck the resonance of a thousand thousand mindeyes, all sending their uai to the spear and through it into her.

  Time stopped. Not slowed, not almost-stopped like she had sometimes managed with her own ability. The air became solid stone around her, her own heart stopping in her lungs. Panicking, Ella eased off some, and the air softened to something like hard clay.

  Hard clay she could work with. Ella struck resonance again, this time using her imagination to give her arms and legs the strength of a newly overcome brawler, like she had once witnessed in Sigwil as he defeated two Broken in the courtyard of the prison camp in Ayugen. Struck it and pushed through the thick air, managing something like normal speed. It was hard work but Praet, if he was still alive out there, if he was Teynsley, would have no time to react before she found him. And ended it.

  Ella followed the airborne shards of debris through the warren’s alleys, shattered wood suspended in slip and illuminated in the first rays of morning. She found Praet at their center, impaled on a broken mast repurposed as a shanty post. Ella flew up to him, power still roaring through her. He was still alive, as far as she could tell.

  She struck a third resonance, this one as foreign to her as fatewalking: mindsight. Words appeared in a cloud around his head along with colors and sounds and emotions, frozen like the rest of the world. Ella slackened her timeslip just enough to speed them up, scanning his thoughts.

  They appeared to be a shaman’s—mixed with the surprise and pain were thoughts of his uai stream and whether he could heal himself and if his revenant could survive. A powerful shaman, even—but not an archrevenant.

  It didn’t matter. If this was Teynsley, he would be a using a mental filter like the one she had, lest the other shamans watch his mind and discover the truth. There was no way to know.

  And only one way to be sure.

  “I am sorry, if this is wrong,” Ella said to the dying man, words quiet in the preternatural silence of a frozen world. “I am sorry but I cannot risk waking you up.”

  She had no doubts an awake Teynsley would destroy her easily, whether he was hurt or not. That at any moment the archrevenant would timeslip and it would all be over. Ella pulled a piece of debris from the air, a narrow shard of weather-worn wood.

  “For Tai,” she whispered. “For Tai, and for the future.” Ella pushed it into the soft flesh behind the man’s ear like Feynrick had shown her.

  She sped time halfway, keeping a close watch on his thoughts for some trick an archrevenant might use to survive, watching in shamanic sight to see if his revenant tried to escape, or a million thralled souls suddenly cascaded from his forehead.

  She saw none of that, just a swell of red pain and blue-black fear followed by a washing out, like a river going dry, or a page wet with ink in a sudden rain. The body slumped against its pole, blood welling honeylike around the shard she’d driven into its brain.

  Ella clutched her stomach in horror. This was not Teynsley—something more would have happened, she was sure of it. Some rush of power at least, or a final trick of the ancient mind, his revenant darting into another body like Nauro had done.

  Instead a revenant drifted from Praet’s open mouth, bright blue but growing duller, with just a few thralls tied to it and no undead purpose giving it life.

  She’d killed the wrong man.

  A man who had threatened and questioned her, yes, but one who ultimately had wanted to be her ally. Ella’s legs wavered, and she could feel herself wanting to slide into remorse, into guilt.

  “No time for that, Ella,” she muttered. “You did the best you could.” Teynsley was the one who’d created this situation. Let this death fall on his hands.

  Still she wept, in the silence of slip, for what had to be done. For feeling so helpless, even as the power of a god roared through her. For how uncertain she was, even now, that everything would be okay. That Tai would be okay. That the tiny arc of light in her belly—yes, it was still there—would survive the coming days.

  Sometime later—what was time, to a god in timeslip?—she had a thought that sent her bolt upright. She hadn’t killed a god here. But she had used the spear.

  Meaning the real Teynsley, whoever he was, would have heard it if he was in the city. Would know where she was.

  And he would come for her.

  44

  And for a thousand years, this power did feel like enough. But how can one be satisfied when there is yet more to gain? And how else to enliven these immortal years than to rekindle the prospect of death?

  —Archenault Teynsley, private letters

  Marea inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool morning breeze coming through Uhallen’s latticework wall, air carrying the brine scent of the ocean. Her room looked out over the rooftop gardens of the old city, but it was the view beyond that captivated her, the sun rising on the ocean off the long peninsula of Brokewater. Something called to her in that horizon, some part of her that was just its stretching wings after a long captivity. There were other continents out there, other peoples. Other shamans most likely, though she hadn’t asked Uhallen. She wanted to see it all. She could see it all—she had the power now.

  And this city was beginning to feel small. She’d stayed here the last two nights after Uhallen’s warnings of reprisal from the Neverblades. The broadsheets were including her in the descriptions of the battle at the Downs too, so she didn’t doubt the lawkeepers were looking for her.

  Not that she couldn’t handle a few lawkeepers. But Worldsmouth had gone from feeling like home to being just another place to an outright trap. It was time for change. She gazed again at the long stretch of city leading out to open water. How many other people here felt the same way? Praise the currents she could at least do something about it.

  A polite knock sounded at her door. “Marea?” Uhallen’s voice sounded. “I had breakfast brought up if you’re hungry.”

  She wasn’t, but she was coming to enjoy the shaman’s company. Here finally was someone who took her for a peer. Who understood what she was going through because he’d been through it too. And who celebrated her victories instead of judging her for them.

  “Sounds great!” she called. “Let me just get dressed.”

  Bowls of chilled rice noodles with fresh herbs and citr
us sat on the shaman’s polished table alongside steaming cups of ginseng.

  “This looks wonderful,” she said. “You’ve got to let me start paying for some of this stuff.”

  “Please,” Uhallen said, already dressed immaculately in a gray-green kurta and charcoal pants. “Money is no longer a constraint for me, and won’t long be for you. Cigar?”

  She’d acquired more of a taste for the things over the past day and a half, but not first thing in the morning. Uhallen seemed to literally smoke them whenever he was awake. Which was always. “Maybe later.”

  He shrugged, selecting a pale green stick and lighting it with a touch of uai. “You might find that—”

  The shaman cut off, head snapping up sharply. He sniffed, like a fox scenting the air.

  Marea frowned. “Everything alright?”

  Uhallen didn’t answer for a long moment, gaze distant and concentrated. Then he turned to her and smiled. “Not for us to choose the day or the hour. Are you ready for another test? A much bigger one this time?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Absolutely.” The shaman she’d killed yesterday evening had been a challenge, but she was stronger now. More alive. The five new thralls had again sharpened her senses, deepened her thoughts, heightened her power. She would still stay true to her vow—get your power and get out—but she wasn’t get to get out yet. Not if there was more power for the taking. “Another Neverblade?”

  Uhallen drew on his cigar, like he did when he was searching for words. “Yes. One of their recluses, a man I haven’t seen in the city in decades. Not that you will see him either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Braegen does not show his true face, and only rarely uses his true power, preferring to wear a mask and stay on the sidelines.”

  The shaman yesterday had worn masks too, switching faces during their battle to try to distract her. Avery, Ella, her uncle. It had almost felt good, attacking them. Another way to get closure on her old life.

  “But he does have power?” Marea asked.

  Uhallen chuckled out smoke. “More than you can imagine.”

  “If you think I can handle it then I’m ready.” Marea set down her noodle bowl. “Where do I go?”

  “Hold a moment,” he said, raising a hand. “Breagen will fight with different tactics than you have seen. He is an avisceror, working mainly with illusions and your own thoughts.”

  “Fine,” Marea said. “I faced those in Aran.” They were awful, but she was more skilled now.

  “Breagen’s illusions are particularly convincing—that’s how he’s gathered so much power. He will read your own thoughts and spin lies from them to convince you are fighting the wrong person. Wear other people’s faces. I—I’m not sure you’re ready for this.” He shrugged apologetically.

  “I’m ready,” Marea said. What was the man’s problem? “I need more power, and he won’t be expecting me. A little fatewalking, a touch of surprise, and it should work like it has other times, right?”

  “I suppose,” Uhallen relented. “And he really does have a large amount of power. Just take him unawares and strike decisively. Do not allow him to make you question your own motives.”

  “How will I know him, with all his disguises?”

  “I know the man,” Uhallen said. “I watched him kill my best friend. Here.” His eyes lost focus for a moment, and Marea felt something light settle on her forehead, like a spider web. “You will see him shining in green, no matter what form he takes. He is somewhere in Brokewater, or was moments ago.”

  “Okay,” Marea said, turning to leave.

  “Marea,” he said, taking her shoulders. “Be prepared—this will not be easy. Not like your other battles. But this is your moment. Take Breagen’s power and you will be greater than any shaman in Worldsmouth, save myself. Rend his soul if you can. Bring all his thralls back.”

  “And we split them fifty-fifty?”

  “This one?” Uhallen smiled, his eyes seemed to grow more uneven. “If you manage this one, I’ll let you keep them all.”

  45

  Ella forced her breathing to slow. She was not helpless. A god was coming for her, but she had the power of another god in her hands. Brokewater was still frozen around her, fragments of debris still red with dawn’s first light. She had time.

  She could escape—she had seen Falena travel from one place to another suddenly, the woman just appearing in a rush of air. Ella had even asked her how to do it. Figure it out, the woman had said. You already know it’s about uai and belief.

  But the uai was the problem—every time she used the spear it was like waving a flag at Teynsley, asking him to come kill her. If she managed to use Falena’s traveling method, she could go anywhere—but could Teynsley just follow her wherever she’d gone? Who knew what the archrevenants were capable of?

  She could physically run—let go of the resonance and hide herself in the back alleys of Brokewater. Pray the man had no other way of hunting her down. But that seemed foolish too—he’d been willing to put an entire city to the sword to make getting the spear easier. He would not balk at searching the slum. Or levelling it, for that matter.

  “Think Ella,” she muttered, pacing the sailcloth roof of the shanty, cloth hard as a rock in slip. Teynsley wanted the spear, but even when he knew where it was—in Tai’s hands—he hadn’t come for it personally. Instead he’d sent an assassin, and Eyadin before that. He was either very cautious, or—

  “He doesn’t want to break the pact,” Ella said, jumping from the roof and letting the inertia of slowed air break her fall. Which meant he was either afraid of the archrevenants, or unwilling to risk revealing himself.

  Those were fears she could use. She could not count on them stopping him from attacking this time—he cared too much to let the spear slip through his fingers. But she could make sure he thought twice about doing it.

  Ella’s feet touched the hard-packed dirt, the sound eerie in the pitch-shifted silence of the narrow alley. Brokewater was no place to battle a god—not only were there too many people here, they weren’t the right kind of people. They would not recognize a high councilor if he appeared, nor would the city care if the warren got destroyed in some freak accident. No—if she wanted to be sure Teynsley was spotted, she needed somewhere richer and more public. And if she wanted the city to believe in shamans and archrevenants, if she wanted them to see the truth of the things she planned to write in her articles, she needed the destruction to be somewhere much more important than the lowland slums.

  There could be only one place—the Councileum. Broad, iconic, attended day and night by people who would recognize the city’s elite on sight, it was also located in the heart of Councilate power.

  The only problem was West Cove lay across the bay from Brokewater. If she were Tai, she could just waft there. Currents, if Tai were just here she could shut her eyes and have him waft her over. But Tai wasn’t here, and if she wanted to ever see him again, she needed to do this herself.

  For a moment she was overcome with longing for the lanky Achuriman. Always before when they’d faced danger it had been together. Knowing that at least if they died, they did it together. What if she died without him ever knowing about their child?

  “Pull it together, tauera,” Ella muttered. That would be awful, but thinking about it changed nothing. There were other ways to get to the Councileum, ones that didn’t involve emptying her stomach the entire way. She could run at brawler speed—likely over the water too, this deep in slip—but that would still take time. How much actual time had passed since she first blasted Praet through the wall? Tens of seconds for sure, perhaps minutes. She couldn’t risk the archrevenant coming in slip himself and catching her halfway across the water.

  No, she needed something fast. Which brought her back to Falena and the woman’s sudden travelling method. Uai and belief, she had said. Well uai she had in plenty, and believing in sudden travel wasn’t hard, because she’d seen Falena do it. So Ella pictured her
self standing on the highest tier of the Councileum, pale stone solid beneath her, morning rays warming her face.

  Something kicked Ella in every square inch of her body and she was there, sun rising through the arches that lined the giant stone amphitheater’s upper tiers, casting long shadows onto the circular ranks of seats. The Eschatolist ministers were just beginning morning prayers on the sandy floor below, and the lower tiers were half-full of the faithful and those pretending to have faith, most of them in House colors.

  Good. That would take care of destroying Teynsley’s public reputation, should he choose to come in person. Now for the reason she’d come to Worldsmouth in the first place—his reputation among the archrevenants.

  Like she had on a grassy knoll in the Yershire, ten days and a lifetime ago, Ella began to strike resonances. Brawler’s buzz to match her timeslip hum, wafter’s rattle tuned to add a third note to the chord. She couldn’t say what chord it was, or which mode it was in like Marea might, but she had harmonized enough to at least know it was in tune. Ella struck a fourth, mosstongue’s whine echoing brawler’s buzz octaves above, and finally mindseye’s near-inaudible song, her bones going from rattle to resonance when she got it right. With one more pitch she could open a waystone or call down the mysteries of the moon—but that was not what she was after.

  What she needed was a woman on the far side of the planet to hear, and come.

  Ella held the five-part harmony a long while, because it would be such a short while outside slip, then dropped it and waited, praying the woman didn’t take too long. She could use an ally in this fight.

  She did not—with a rush of wind the archrevenant appeared, lustrous black hair bound in a scarlet headwrap, for once in practical clothes of loose black rather than her silk and lace.

  “Yes?” Falena demanded, looking impressed by neither the massive Councileum nor the fact they were in a slip so slow time had nearly stopped. “I have a rebellion to put down. Be quick.”