And now, the entrance.
Arak’Jur saw it, plain as he saw her face. Twisted branches came together to form a passage into darkness.
“I’m sorry, Corenna,” he said.
“Why?” she said. “Am I so unworthy?”
She turned to address the trees. “Have the Ranasi so offended you, great spirits, that we must be purged root and stem, only for you to spit in our eyes when we plead for help?”
He understood. For a guardian it would be as if the spirits denied their gift at the moment of the kill. An unthinkable loss; such ritual was at the heart of who and what he was. Corenna lived that horror now, barred entry to the sacred places and starved of the connections to the land that fueled the essence of her magic. Especially for one such as she, who had striven more than any woman in his memory to prepare herself for war, the spirits’ prohibition would wound her to the core.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said, pacing around where she stood in the narrow clearing. “Ilek’Inari could not complete his final rites when we—”
“Could you see the way inside then?” she demanded. “When you first brought us here?”
He grew quiet. The memory was clear. He had seen the entrance then, just as he saw it now.
“You could,” she said, with a nod to punctuate the accusation. “Why? Why did the spirits choose you?”
“I don’t understand any better than you.”
She turned away.
“I’m sorry, Arak’Jur,” she said. “It’s wrong to turn my anger on you. Forgive me.”
She drew a slow breath as he watched her, and yearned for some way to make her whole.
“Go then,” she said. “Enter and find what we seek.”
He turned toward the entrance, where looming shadows pooled into darkness. Then he stopped and turned back toward her.
“Try to enter,” he said. “Walk the path. You say you cannot see the way. I can. It is there. This is a thing of the spirits’ corruption, no more.”
“Arak’Jur, even if the spirits are maddened by corruption, it would invite a curse if I—”
“We are past such concerns,” he said.
She held his eyes, then nodded.
She approached, striding forward toward the twisting knots of branches. A confident step carried her almost to the cusp, but when she came to the edge of the opening her fists struck upon what looked to him like the shadows themselves.
She turned back, a look of despair on her face.
“With me, then,” he said, extending a hand.
She took it, and together they stepped forward.
He heard her breath catch before the world faded away to blackness, dissolving his consciousness into the presence of the spirits.
The spirits, and Corenna at his side.
ARAK’JUR.
He felt the words thunder through him even as another voice sounded: CORENNA.
BE WELCOME IN KA’ANA’TYAT, SON OF THE SINARI, DAUGHTER OF THE RANASI. BE WELCOME IN THE BIRTHPLACE OF VISIONS.
The way was barred, he thought.
YES.
A great silence lingered, though he felt the warmth of Corenna’s presence beside him. If she spoke, he could not hear it, though he felt her there, huddled close as if they sheltered together by a fire.
Why? he asked at last.
WHAT THE POWER OF THE GODDESS DEMANDS, WE MUST GIVE.
Can you be made free of this burden?
Another long silence.
YOU ARE CHOSEN.
Again the spirits declared him “chosen,” as if he was meant to understand. Ilek’Inari had not known its meaning. Not even the oldest stories in their people’s memory spoke of such a thing, though perhaps Ka’Vos had taken the secret with him into death. He knew only that the spirits asked after it, finding the supplicants of each tribe wanting. And now had the spirits confirmed it was his mantle to bear.
What does it mean to be chosen?
IT IS THE OLD WAY. WE DID NOT REMEMBER, BEFORE. WE WERE WRONG TO TURN ASIDE THE GUARDIANS. NOW WE UNDERSTAND. YOU MUST SEEK OUT OUR POWER. ASCEND, AS CHAMPION OF THE WILD. MARK YOUR PLACE AT THE SEAT OF THE GODS.
A vulgar thought. Guardians did not seek out the gifts of the spirits, only followed the shamans’ visions to ward against the great beasts that threatened the tribe.
NO.
He had given no voice to the thought, but the spirits responded all the same.
NO. GATHER OUR GIFTS. THE TIME APPROACHES. THE GOD STIRS. THE GODDESS HAS NEED OF HER CHAMPIONS.
The words washed over him with the force of thunder. If there was corruption here—and he had not ruled it out—he could not feel it.
Great spirits, he thought. I will try.
IT WILL SERVE. WOULD YOU HAVE OUR BOON?
Yes, he thought, bracing himself to receive their gift.
Nothing came, only silence.
Spirits? he asked.
OURS IS THE BOON OF VISIONS. ONE FOR THINGS PASSED, AND ONE FOR THINGS-TO-COME.
A sensation pervaded his thoughts, of himself asking the spirits for answers.
You wish me to ask for visions?
YES. ONE REQUEST FOR THE PAST. ONE FOR THINGS-TO-COME.
Doubt flooded his mind.
Had Corenna known this would be the boon of Ka’Ana’Tyat? Had she come prepared? For his part, his mind ran dry even as he weighed a dozen and more possibilities.
In the distance he felt a muted sensation, as if Corenna spoke to him through water, then he heard the same dull rumbling as the spirit spoke in return. Strain as he might, he could make out none of the words.
CORENNA OF THE RANASI’S ANSWERS BELONG TO HER ALONE. ASK, IF YOU WOULD HAVE YOURS.
Two questions? he asked.
YES. ASK.
The past. He could have the truth of Ka’Vos’s death, surety of Corenna’s devotion, or the steps that had led to Llanara’s betrayal. What paths he might have walked instead, had he never taken up the mantle of the guardian. He could ask after the corruption of the spirits themselves, delving into the mysteries of their madness.
But in the end, all of these were stones cast into the river of time. He would continue on his present course—to protect his people from the ravages of war—no matter the spirits’ revelations pertaining to Llanara, Ka’Vos, or even their own corruption.
Instead he sought a balm of knowledge, to salve a wound that would not heal alone.
Spirits, he began, I would know whether I could have saved my wife, Rhealla, and my son, Kar’Elek. Whether I could have taken some action, some other course. Whether I might have returned to the village sooner, or spoken to the shaman in time to receive warning. Whether—
YOU BEAR NO FAULT FOR THEIR DEATHS, ARAK’JUR.
The voice interrupted his thought, a peal of thunder crashing through him, mixing agony and relief.
BE FREE OF THIS BURDEN.
He felt it drain away. Grief bled through him, replaced with the sure knowledge of the spirits’ words. In an instant he saw the vivid truth of that terrible day, when he had returned to the village and found the valak’ar slaughtering the bravest among his people, those who had stood against it, buying time for the rest to flee. He saw his wife among the first to rush forward, leading the beast away from the tents. He saw her stand firm as it coiled toward her, heard her cry out as her last thoughts echoed in his mind: thoughts of loss and sadness, but also pride. Thoughts of him and of their son. Of love. A deep and abiding love that the wraith-snake’s venom could not wash away.
He watched in agony as his son picked up a spear fallen from the hand of a master hunter. He watched as his beautiful boy strode forward, confident he did only as his father would have done in his place. Once more he heard the final thoughts: Did I do it right, father? Was I a worthy son?
He saw himself. Rushing into the village, armed with no more than a hunting spear, daring to expose his flesh to the valak’ar’s deadly bite. He watched as it killed Arak’Mul, and he struck it down, rending the cre
ature into bloody ruin, its corpse steaming like the ashes of a dying flame.
There was nothing more. He had done what could be done. Tides of grief and pain threatened to drown him, but through the spirits’ eyes he could see the truth. He would mourn their loss, but he need not carry the burden of guilt any longer.
Pain seared through him as the visions faded.
REMEMBER THEM.
Thank you, great spirits, he thought.
ONE MORE. FOR THINGS-TO-COME. ASK.
This one was simpler.
Llanara, he thought.
The visions came at once.
54
SARINE
A Wide Street
Riverways District, New Sarresant
The street shook, windows rattling in their frames.
She felt it more than heard it, a deep boom reverberating through her Life-empowered senses. It sounded like a thunderclap, for all that it was midday and the sky was clear and blue. Behind her the column of nobles trailed in tight clusters, credit to Donatien for drilling them in soldiers’ marching formations. She paused, looking over her shoulder to the northwest, the direction from which they had come.
Another boom, this time enough to rattle her teeth.
Regiment-Major Laurent turned to look, the same as she had. “What under the Nameless—?” he managed, before yet another boom cut him short.
“Cannon fire,” Captain Vaudreuil said, flanking her at the head of the column. “Someone is setting off artillery.”
“Keep moving,” she said, raising her voice. “Let’s go, everyone keep up.” More than a few heads had turned, startled back into line by the sound of her voice. She looked up and down the line, seeing no sign of any attacks nearby; the booms were far enough away, and in the direction from which they had come, not the way they traveled now.
Still, her uncle.
He’d insisted she leave him behind, and nothing short of clubbing him over the head and tying him to a pack horse would have been enough to change his mind. She’d almost done that very thing, his choices be damned. Her stomach wrenched at the thought that he’d stayed behind, doubly so now if Vaudreuil was right. Artillery, northwest of the city. Almost enough to see her turn back to the Maw just to be certain he was safe. Instead she checked her leyline tethers through the strange power Axerian had called a warding, the blue sparks that even days later had not diminished. Shelter would hold if Faith did not, with the chapel itself an ample supply of both.
Vaudreuil trotted at her side, in full dress uniform of a navy captain, as the booms sounded again.
“What do you make of it, Captain?” she asked. Laurent loped along beside her, listening in as they spoke.
“I can’t begin to guess,” Vaudreuil said. “I had little information about the goings-on in this wretched city—ah, begging your pardon.”
“Perhaps a training exercise,” Laurent said. “I know the new High Commander personally. D’Arrent was ever fond of her war games.” That had been one of the few learnings they’d been able to glean from excursions into the city—Erris d’Arrent had high command of the army. Donatien had been silent on it, and she hadn’t pressed.
“Cannons though, so near the city?” she said.
Laurent’s brow furrowed as he took another look over his shoulder. “She might,” he said dubiously.
Nodding, and hoping it proved to be no more than that, she kept them moving down the wide streets of the Riverways, angling toward the Harbor district. The booms echoing in the distance added uncertainty to their slow advance, though they already took a great risk moving through the city in daylight. Vaudreuil had insisted their best chance was to sail on the evening tide, and that meant taking the time to secure supplies and free his crew beforehand. And now this. Gods send that nothing else went awry before she saw these people to safety.
As if to mock her pleas, a small company of men strode into view at an intersection ahead, carrying muskets but out of uniform. Almost she reached for Yellow before they continued on course, heading west on a different street. Off-duty soldiers, perhaps, but far more likely to be d’Agarre’s people, armed citizens. And they were marching in the direction of the cannons. She shared looks with Laurent, Vaudreuil, and the nobles around her, feeling the uncertainty she was sure was common up and down the line.
They tacked east, staying north of the river as they made way toward the Harbor district. Two leagues perhaps to cross through the rest of the city. They had somehow managed to avoid one patrol already, and made good time as they followed the streets winding along the banks of the river. Perhaps whatever trouble was brewing in the northwest corner of the city would leave them behind as they gained the ship.
“They’ll be in one of the warehouses along the harbor,” Vaudreuil had said when she’d asked after his crew. He’d proceeded to give her every detail he could remember, and offered to go with her to help spur the men to obedience. It would be a delicate thing to use Yellow to scatter whatever guards had been set without affecting the sailors, but Zi could do it. Whatever else his failings, she retained full confidence in his gifts.
She thought she knew the warehouse Vaudreuil had described, and went over the plans in her head as they moved. A side approach would be best, using one of the back alleys both in and out. Even now there was plenty of traffic in the harbor. She’d as soon keep the attention she drew to a minimum.
Thoughts of planning died as they rounded a left turn toward the district boundary. Gods damn it. Another company of militia, this one fifty strong or more and all carrying muskets, rushing up the very street down which they meant to march.
So much for luck.
“Stay back,” she called to the nobles behind her.
The militiamen showed no signs of stopping. Flares of Yellow sprang up at the edges of her vision. The militia were close enough for her to feel their emotions, using the power of Zi’s gift: dread, determination, worry, anticipation. She reached out to them, intending to amplify the fear already nestled there.
Instead Zi whispered into her mind. Green.
A moment of confusion, backed by a rising fury. Had he worked against her? Had he used the power of Green—to manipulate positive emotions—to offset her Yellow?
No, Zi thought to her. Not me.
Then she saw the man at the head of the militia company, a man carrying no musket, shouting commands, looking toward her column with rage in his eyes. She didn’t recognize the man, but he seemed to know her, staring into her eyes as he barked out orders to fire.
She had a bare moment before the militiamen dropped to their knees, leveling their muskets to shoot.
Shelter sprang up as the whipcracks of musket shot went off, wisps of smoke rising where they dissolved into harmless vapor. A battle cry rose up from behind the barrier she had constructed. Red, came the warning from Zi.
“I can’t break them!” she cried. “They have a kaas-mage. Laurent!”
Major Laurent seemed to blur as he tethered Body, drawing his sword with grim determination, huddled behind her barrier.
Yellow, thought Zi.
No. She willed Green into place, countering her enemy’s attempt to scatter her line in the same manner she had seen him do moments before.
“What should we do?” Laurent called to her.
They had moments, mere moments only before the militia covered the ground between them. And what if this enemy kaas-mage had access to Black, the power d’Agarre had used to drain away her bindings? What if he pierced through her Shelter and left them exposed?
“I didn’t want to have to kill them,” she said. “I—”
“No time, we have to attack!” Laurent shouted back.
Careful, Zi thought.
She dropped her Shelter binding and called on the power she’d found hidden in the sewers, granted by the strange voices at once similar to the mareh’et and lakiri’in, and yet also different. War-spirits, they had named themselves. Spirits of the storm.
Air ripped as sh
e discharged their gift, streaks of lightning arcing from her hands into the onrushing militiamen. She was right; they’d almost been upon her barrier, a mere twenty paces shy of racing around her Shelter and crashing into the nobles. Their eyes narrowed with hate as her barrier vanished, replaced with shock and terror as her power struck home, streaking from man to man as it snaked through their line.
Screams, terrible screams as a crushing boom followed her gift.
White, Zi thought to her, and it was so: The man at the head of the column stood untouched, surrounded by a pulsing white shield.
But she heard nothing, saw nothing. The world seemed to blur.
A feeling bloomed in her mind, a swelling tide from the tips of her fingers down the back of her spine.
Pleasure.
She teetered on the edge, an abyss of golden warmth beckoning her for what seemed an eternity. Her mind drew in the feeling, shuddering as the sensation of needles pricked all across her skin. Joy, and a thirst for more. A thirst for blood. Pure bliss that stretched every moment into an hour, every heartbeat into a void of thoughtless rapture.
Fight it, Zi thought to her. Come back.
She blinked. It called to her, stirring a yearning from deep inside her. A picture shrouded in mist, struggling to be made real.
Screams. High-pitched screams.
The world came back into focus.
She saw Laurent, his face twisted in surprise as his head lay skewed apart from his torso, a sure sign his neck had been snapped. And Vaudreuil, twisted in an echo of the same, his fine naval uniform ditched into crimson snow. She saw bodies around her, bodies dressed in sullied clothes that had once been fine. Bodies of the nobles, torn and bloody.
Red flared at the edge of her vision, and she tethered Body, whirling to face the source. The kaas-mage had been loosed in her company, and they had broken before his attack, scattering into the street in a panic. The man laughed, a look of madness in his eyes as he ran after them.
She moved.
A raging flurry, drawing upon mareh’et to complement the rest of her gifts. She closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, striking the man in the back with one of the Great Cat’s ethereal claws. His White already exhausted, the man folded like paper into the slush remaining on the street.
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