Bloodline (Cradle Book 9)

by Will Wight

  Lindon couldn’t understand why Dross was wasting madra for this conversation. I’m not throwing you away, now please help!

  Dross let out a relieved breath. [Okay good, I just needed to hear it.]

  Then dream aura flooded out of him. In a tide so expansive that Lindon wondered where it had all come from. How had Lindon not sensed vital aura this strong in Sacred Valley?

  But he had sensed it, he realized. This was the power he’d drained from the Titan’s thoughts. Lindon had left sorting those to Dross.

  Now, the aura flowed out, but not in a disorganized mess. It was being woven into a technique. A technique Lindon recognized.

  The Fox Dream.

  Dross blazed with madra, so much that even Lindon was surprised. The Titan paused, Orthos still struggling overhead, and Lindon added his contribution. Soulfire merged into the technique, and Lindon joined his will to Dross’.

  Because of that link, he saw the vision Dross sent to the Titan.

  It was nothing complicated. The Dreadgod saw eight figures hovering over Mount Samara, all Monarchs. It felt their power.

  And one more detail: the turtle in its hands had vanished.

  The Titan felt no fear, only irritation and disappointment. It had thought it was about to find its ancient home, only to find a patch of nothing. Well-defended nothing, too. And there was nothing it hated more than wasting its effort.

  With a slow, ponderous motion, the Titan turned.

  And walked back the way it came.

  It lowered its arms, absently dropping the giant Orthos to the ground. Orthos hit and roared again, which Lindon worried would break the illusion of the Fox Dream, but the Dreadgod kept walking unaffected. From the pain through their bond, Lindon knew the turtle was still alive.

  And each earth-shaking footstep grew more and more distant.

  Lindon fell back on his Thousand-Mile Cloud, sagging in relief.

  “Dross…thank you. You saved us.”

  When no one responded, Lindon stretched his perception into his own spirit.

  “Dross?”

  20

  Iteration 001: Sanctum

  In the center of an isolation chamber buried deep beneath the sprawling megacity of Sanctum, Suriel slowly restored Makiel.

  His body drifted in the center of the empty gold-walled room, runes all around glowing blue to enhance the effect of the Way. His mind was awake and active, but he gazed into the future. Trying to find a way to preserve Fate.

  She could have had him back on his feet in an instant, but his existence had been severely damaged. His power would suffer unless she healed him slowly and carefully.

  In the meantime, she was given little choice but to contemplate the situation among the worlds.

  A blooming map of existence spread out in front of her at her will, a twisting nest of blue light with bright lights hanging off it like berries on a bush. The branches were the Way, the spots of light the Iterations.

  All of them should be bright blue with a core of white, but too many of them were gray. Far, far too many.

  As she watched, one of the lights from the cluster labeled ‘Sector 12’ turned black and withered away. Iteration 129: Oasis.

  The Mad King and his Scythe had finished their reaping.

  Suriel continued focusing on Makiel’s restoration. There was one more thing she could do for the good of all existence, but first she had to wait.

  Finally, she felt the touch of Telariel, the Spider.

  He rarely left Sanctum, but now even he was on the battlefield, retreating temporarily from a victory to connect her to all the other Judges. She caught brief glimpses of the remaining four, each engaged in battle, as Telariel wove his strands of authority to link them across time and space.

  When all the Judges could hear her, Suriel spoke.

  “Makiel is in recovery. We faced the Mad King and were defeated.”

  She felt the reactions of the various Judges as though they were her own. Gadrael, the Titan, was astonished that his sponsor could have failed. Razael, the Wolf, wanted to test her own sword against the Vroshir. Zerachiel, the Fox, immediately ran to an Iteration farther away from the Mad King.

  “By Makiel’s authorization and my own, I send the following command. All Judges, do not engage the Mad King. Abandon any world you cannot hold, and fortify those you can. The Vroshir will finish their raid, and many will die, but soon enough they will leave. We will retreat, and endure, and rebuild.”

  The Spider and the Fox immediately sent their agreement. They prioritized their own lives and those of the Abidan above all else.

  The Titan was next. Any world he was in would be well-fortified indeed, and he would follow any instruction of Makiel’s.

  The Ghost sent no reply, but Suriel took that as agreement. The Wolf was the last to agree, frustrated that she couldn’t vent her frustrations on the enemy, but she satisfied herself with the knowledge that they would strike back someday.

  The Hound and the Phoenix already agreed, so the Court of Seven was in accord. Their forces would pull back and let the Vroshir rampage until the pressures of chaos forced them to retreat back to their worlds.

  Abidan would spread out more slowly this time, recovering surviving worlds and rebuilding others from fragments. From ten thousand worlds before Ozriel’s departure, they would be reduced to…a hundred, perhaps.

  Even her Presence couldn’t speculate on the total number of lives that would be lost. At least those taken by the Vroshir would survive, but the Mad King and his allies would capture only those who could benefit them in some way.

  Most would perish. And some of the worlds they lost would be vital ones.

  She returned her attention to the map of the Way hovering in front of her. Sector 12 was entirely gray now, and other Sectors were darkening around it. Abidan had pulled back, leaving that region almost entirely undefended. One Sector in particular was surrounded, left entirely to the mercy of the Vroshir.

  Sector 11.

  With a heavy heart, Suriel reached out to the first world in the Sector: Iteration 110, Cradle.

  Before the world was entirely closed off to the rest of the Way, she found a tiny piece of herself manifested in reality. She resonated with it, sending a message through the blue candle-flame inside.

  It had to be simple. More simple impressions than words.

  I’m sorry, Suriel sent. Hold on.

  She spared an instant of grief for the world. The Mad King, who had once been the hero Daruman, knew the significance of Cradle. He knew it was the birthplace of the original Abidan, and—perhaps more importantly to him—Ozriel’s home.

  Now, it was at his mercy.

  Eithan gritted his teeth. “Cut it off.”

  Yerin grabbed his hand too tightly. “Are you sure?”

  “Do it!”

  With the chime of a tiny bell, Yerin carefully used the Endless Sword. And Eithan’s glorious hair fell to the floor.

  He gave a cry of pain, and Yerin patted him on the shoulder. “You looked like a yellow dog that climbed out of the fireplace. Your hair was suffering, and we eased it on its way.”

  “A mirror,” Eithan croaked. “Bring me a mirror.”

  He could see himself through his bloodline power, now that they were hovering in the cloud fortress outside of Sacred Valley, but there was still no substitute to using your own eyes.

  Yerin handed him his pocket mirror, holding it up for him so he didn’t have to move his bandaged hands. She had left only two or three inches of hair. Barely enough to style.

  He looked…well, he still looked great. A change in style could be refreshing sometimes.

  But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t mourn the loss.

  “Thank you. I just needed to see the damage for myself.”

  She patted him again, and he could see her struggling not to make some comment about having real injuries to see to.

  Eithan himself had a brace on his neck and all four limbs, as well as scripted bandage
s around his entire midsection and no less than three medicinal pills in his system. If not for the scripts, he would feel like beetles were eating him from the inside out at the moment, but at least he would be healed in a few days.

  But he wasn’t the only one who needed attention.

  Mercy and Ziel were both asleep, recovering from spiritual wounds. Little Blue had seen to them both, and Mercy would wake soon. She had strained her bloodline far beyond its limits, and would have suffered worse if she hadn’t left the battle once her armor broke.

  Her mother would be able to restore such an injury, no doubt, but then they would all be in the unenviable position of explaining to Malice why they let a Monarch’s Overlady daughter face down a Dreadgod. If she recovered on her own, Malice need not be bothered.

  Ziel had also pushed himself too far, but fortunately not beyond the restorative benefits of the Pure Storm Baptism. Eithan had performed the next stage—with his arms stiff as boards—and now Ziel slept with sparks of lightning madra playing through his spirit and over his body.

  Orthos was perhaps in the worst shape, and his size couldn’t be reversed until he woke up and was provided with more soulfire. He hovered over a hill outside like a mid-sized Dreadgod himself, drifting on green cushions of life aura guided by a script. Everyone had donated life-aspected natural treasures to the effort, and now his flesh was knitting itself together at visible speed.

  Even Yerin had not walked away unscathed, though she’d recovered before everyone but Lindon. Veins of bright red madra covered her body, replacing broken flesh, including a chunk of her hip. If she had to fight now, she could.

  Instead of mocking Eithan, Yerin stood and looked to the door. “Scream if you need more coddling. I’m going after him.”

  “You don’t think he needs some time alone right now?”

  “Been more than a minute since he’s been alone at all.”

  Physically, Lindon was fine. He was suffering some aftereffects from having Consumed too much of the Titan, but nothing he wouldn’t wrestle through.

  Loss was harder to handle.

  “Beings such as Dross don’t really die,” Eithan said. “…except under truly extraordinary circumstances.”

  They could, however, change so drastically from damage like this that they came back with entirely different personalities. Which would not reassure Yerin, so Eithan didn’t say anything.

  It wasn’t a guarantee, anyway. Perhaps Dross would recover and be perfectly healthy.

  Eithan hoped so. He still had high hopes for Dross.

  Yerin glanced at him as though she heard his unspoken thoughts. “Doesn’t mean he has an easy road to walk right now, does it? I’d contend he shouldn’t be finding his way on his own.”

  “Nor will he have to,” Eithan agreed, “but sometimes you need time to yourself first.”

  Her expression shifted subtly as she wrestled with herself, and Eithan could read the pain on her face. She knew he was right. She’d pushed through loss enough times herself.

  While she was working to her own conclusion. Eithan left his bed. He didn’t have much control over his body, so he looked something like a turtle righting itself after landing on its shell.

  When he finally stood stiffly on two thoroughly bandaged legs, he congratulated himself on the victory.

  “Doesn’t count as alone if you pop out of the bushes,” she pointed out.

  “I can lurk without popping out. Besides, I’m not going to Lindon.”

  Yerin radiated such obvious skepticism that he thought he could see it in the vital aura.

  “Lindon isn’t the only person in the world. I do sneak up on others occasionally.”

  She gave his legs a pointed look. “You won’t be sneaking up on a deaf brick.”

  “Ah, but you underestimate my legendary grace and agility.” Eithan hobbled across the ground, his every step clattering on the floor until it sounded like the return of the Wandering Titan.

  He paused at the door. He had used up his soulfire to heal himself and perform the Baptism on Ziel.

  “Would you mind helping me with the door, please?”

  Without a word, Yerin pushed it open.

  Somehow, Jai Chen found herself leading a procession of several hundred sacred artists. Most were much older, and none had any idea who she was.

  She led by virtue of being the strongest sacred artist present, and because Mercy had told everyone to listen to her. They had been about two hundred strong then, but the last time Jai Chen extended her detection web, she’d counted almost twice that.

  Mercy had also left her with a medicinal pill for her brother, and now it slowly revolved in his spirit, but he still hadn’t woken up.

  Jai Chen hauled Jai Long behind herself on a stretcher that lay on a hovering construct. She’d been lucky to find that platform; at first, she had been dragging him over the uneven terrain, which couldn’t have been good for his recovery.

  The further they pushed into the black trees, the more dreadbeasts they’d encountered. Most wouldn’t bother a group of their size, but some seemed to have no sense of self-preservation at all.

  Fingerling flew around her, staying alert for more, even though he was at least as exhausted as she was. He sagged in midair, and his eyes regularly fluttered closed, but he kept shaking himself awake.

  Now that the Dreadgod was gone, Jai Chen could turn back west again, but she didn’t want to go back to Sacred Valley in that condition. Nor did anyone else who followed her, it seemed.

  They had a plan for the Wilds, so she was clinging to it like a life raft.

  But the plan let her down at the first step.

  She called out a warning as she felt more sacred artists approaching, but when they emerged, she was the one to panic.

  The forty or fifty sacred artists coming out of the trees wore blue, carried spears, and their hair was stiff and shiny as metal. The Jai clan.

  Jai Chen and her brother had wondered about this. With the clan being pushed out of the Blackflame Empire proper, it was possible that they would look for places to settle on the border of the Empire. Places that weren’t really under Imperial supervision at all. Like the Desolate Wilds.

  A woman with glistening black hair stepped up, her spearhead shining like a white star. “I am Jai Hara, of the Jai clan. Name yourselves.”

  There was deathly silence from the Sacred Valley side as everyone waited for Jai Chen to speak. Even Fingerling turned to her.

  She shoved the panic down into her stomach. These people wouldn’t know who she was. They couldn’t recognize her; she wasn’t wearing anything that marked her as having once been part of their clan, and she didn’t have their Goldsign. Or any Goldsign at all, as she was still Jade.

  They couldn’t know, but she still trembled at the thought that they would figure it out.

  “We came from the west,” Jai Chen called, and she didn’t like how her voice shook. “We’re fleeing the Dreadgod. We just want a place to stay for a while. I…we have friends in the Sandvipers. Or the Purelakes. Are they still here?”

  Jai Hara’s face was as stiff as her hair. “We have barely enough for ourselves, but if you will tell us which experts you represent, we will know where to send our apologies.”

  Jai Chen’s sense of danger spiked. They wanted to know if she was backed by anyone to know if she could be pushed around or not. If she said they were here on their own, they might even attack.

  At first, she thought to say the Arelius family, since she could prove that relatively easily. But that would only ensure they attacked; it had been the Arelius family that had pushed the Jai clan out of the Empire.

  Next, she considered the Akura clan, but she really had no idea who they were. Important, she gathered, but what if they were even worse enemies to the Jai clan?

  Other than an outright, outrageous lie, she only had one idea left.

  “We were sent here by the Sage of Twin Stars,” Jai Chen said.

  There were enough gasp
s and mutters from the dozens of sacred artists behind Jai Hara that she knew she’d said the right thing.

  “A Sage?” Jai Hara repeated in astonishment. “So you’re the…honorable Twin Star sect?”

  “Yes,” Jai Chen said immediately. “That’s us.”

  She had spent enough years in the Desolate Wilds to know that Sages were only legends here, but they were legends widely told. She herself didn’t understand how Lindon could possibly be a Sage—he had felt like an Underlord to her, and he hadn’t acted with the aloof air of an expert she had always imagined from Sages—but as long as he could technically claim the title, she could use it.

  Jai Hara had started conferring with someone behind her, so Jai Chen kept talking. “The Sage himself is close by. He was fighting the Dreadgod, but the valley to the west was destroyed. So we needed to find shelter for ourselves. Before the Sage comes to get us.”

  She was explaining too much, so she clapped her mouth shut before she dug herself a hole she couldn’t dig out of.

  Jai Chen really wished her brother was awake.

  Jai Hara straightened herself up. “We have, of course, heard tales of the Twin Star Sage’s heroism.”

  No, they hadn’t. Jai Chen would have been shocked if Hara had heard the name before now.

  But this was the kind of harmless lie that might soothe the ego of an expert and prevent enmity. Jai Chen understood.

  “It is no surprise to us that the honorable Sage has come to defend us from the Dreadgod,” Jai Hara continued, “but who is that?”

  She pointed behind Jai Chen’s shoulder.

  With a jolt, Jai Chen realized that she hadn’t paid attention to her spiritual sense. She was exhausted, but that was no excuse for a lack of vigilance.

  Eithan Arelius drifted up, looking like he’d floated straight out of a healer’s tent. He was sprawled belly-down on a white Thousand-Mile Cloud, wrapped entirely in bandages. His limbs all looked completely stiff, and his hair had been cut short and swept back.

  He reached into a hole in the air, from which he pulled a long gray length of cloth. “I am here as another representative of the Twin Star sect. Let our banner stream behind us!”