by Ashley Capes
“I know that.”
“Unless...” he trailed off.
“No. I’m not gambling with Pevin’s life.”
“He might be dead already, and then we’re finished if we don’t try something.”
“I said no. We’ll have to come up with something else.”
“Fine.” Kanis fell silent and she joined him.
Time slid by, dark moment after dark moment. Nothing changed, and no ideas leapt up to stun her with their ingenuity. She stood and tried to pace the three steps in her cell, but her limbs remained slow to respond. Damn the sapper.
She sat again. There had to be a way out, a way to find Pevin and escape. How long would the drug take to wear off? It had been too long since she’d been dosed. No-one produced it in Anaskar and so few people had chased her across the ocean when she first left... she blinked heavy lids. “I’m getting drowsy,” she said aloud, but Kanis did not reply.
Darkness pressed down around her.
Steel scraped.
Flir jerked awake. Blinding torchlight obscured two figures. She lifted an arm to protect her eyes and again, her limbs were slow to respond; the sapper still hadn’t worn off.
“Do not fear,” a voice said.
“What?”
The first figure crouched before her, features resolving. A young man with a worried expression. Tikev? “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting you out of here but we must hurry.”
She frowned. “But why?” Fog still clung to her mind. “Mildavir will—”
“This is Aren,” Tikev said. “He has agreed to help you.”
She focused on the second figure. Aren was a middle-aged man with silvery hair wearing a guard uniform, still handsome, still in good shape if the muscles in his arms were any indication – yet those details became fleeting when she glimpsed a tattoo on his wrist. A snow leopard. Mishalar cult. How did they find her?
Aren was speaking. “When you first discovered Mishalar’s blessing, who helped you? Who taught you, Flir?”
“Kanis.” Kanis had taught her a lot but before him, she’d wandered, confused and angry – an outcast in her homeland, drifting from village to village. Sometimes she was able to convince people she was not only useful, but that her strength was not a mark of darkness. And once, after being found and ‘protected’ by men like Aren, fanatical dilar-worshippers, she’d been trapped for months. There was one within the cult who had explained a few things... like what she could likely heal from and what she wouldn’t, but nothing to hint at where Aren was going with his questioning.
“He wasn’t one of Her Surrogates?”
“No. But he knew more than me. About our limits, about things I will never do.”
“This isn’t the Binding,” Aren said. “Though there are similarities.” He glanced to Tikev. “Signal the others on my word. And remember what I said; don’t fight it, despite the fear.”
Tikev’s jaw was clenched but he gave a nod as he slipped outside.
“What are you talking about?” Flir demanded. The last remnants of sleep and perhaps even the lingering effects of the sapper had left her mind, but her limbs were still heavy.
“To help you escape I need to do something and you have to be a part of it.”
“How?”
“In the past when the dilar were rightful Custodians, it was possible to... exchange or lend strength, for a time,” Aren explained. His eyes locked onto hers. “However, for the one that lends of themselves there is significant risk. They will appear cold, mute – they will not breathe, they will appear dead. While linked to the beneficiary they will stay in such a living stasis but too long and the transfer of strength is permanent.”
“And of life?”
“Yes. The Bequeather risks death.”
“And you expect me to lend you my strength so you can break me out of here?”
He smiled. “No. I am offering you my strength, dilar.”
7. Seto
Seto did his best to hold his breath while still appearing regal.
It escaped him how anyone could refer to the messenger’s aviary with its bags of seed and wire cages as anything other than a stinking trap for flying rats. Of course, that was being ungenerous. Lor, The Royal Messenger, kept his aviary clean enough, and some of his birds were certainly more magnificent than pigeons, but the scents the place managed to ferment were simply so... ungodly.
“Here you go, Your Majesty,” Lor said, bowing as he handed over the latest missive.
“Wonderful work as ever,” Seto replied. He accepted the tiny scroll and started back toward the door and his waiting scribe. “The moment another arrives, Lor. Send word.”
“Thank you, sire. Of course.” He paused. “Sire, I can send the message itself if you prefer? That might save you the interruption of a personal visit.”
Seto glanced back to the fellow, who was showing some aptitude for diplomacy, and offered a smile. “Very considerate, but I enjoy the climb, Lor.”
“Of course.” He bowed again.
In the stairwell Seto slipped the scroll, still unread, into an inner pocket of his orange robe. Had he really been so obvious with his distaste? Perhaps the fellow was simply more perceptive than others. The scribe trailed dutifully.
Halfway down, Seto stepped into a small chamber – it had once been a guard room but he’d converted it into a place for one of his scribes, so communication could be achieved more swiftly. More, it was a welcome resting point for his old bones.
Within, Seto went to the window and unrolled the sheepskin, squinting in the brightness, while behind him the sound of the scribe taking his seat was soft. The man was probably dipping a quill into a little pot of ink already, arm no doubt poised over the next scroll.
Wayrn.
His missive was brief:
Negotiation over bones of last Sea God goes poorly. Elders hold out for higher share of as part of restorative demands. Await your word to make final offer.
The final offer; to train the Medah in the use of Greatmasks. An enormous step. Yet if it was the only way to get his hands on more bones then so be it. Anaskar needed more than Argeon for defence. If the Ecsoli returned or if an even greater threat appeared... well, Seto would not be found unprepared again. His city had to survive beyond his own rule, and that meant securing the bones of power – as many as possible.
Not all would be thrilled with what he, Waryn, Holindo and Abrensi, along with Lavinia and Danillo had planned, but that was just another part of a long price that had to be paid.
Seto turned to the scribe, a young fellow with an unruly mop of hair. “Send a response to Wayrn as follows, ‘Make the offer. Inform outcome immediately’.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Tell Lor to be certain – I don’t care how many birds it takes.”
“Understood.”
Seto hesitated, then added, “And the other letters can wait, take some rest. We will finish in the morning.” He left the room, starting down the stairs. All else could wait, truly. Danillo was still in the Bloodwood and word from Flir and Kanis wasn’t due for some time in any event. Notch, on the other hand... well, there was little chance of hearing from him. And once again, Seto didn’t know if he wanted to. It was as if time had turned back, leaving him furious at Notch all over again. It wasn’t the way the man had looted the dwindling treasury. No. It was the sheer foolishness of his flight!
Partially, at least, Seto understood why Notch felt he had to try. He’d been so protective of Sofia; she’d become almost a surrogate daughter.
But it was folly. “We need you here.”
Sofia was gone. Her sacrifice meant something; she had saved the city, perhaps the whole of the lands. For Notch to throw his own life away on his mad search dishonoured her act, her memory.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
Giovan appeared, his hard face bearing a hint of worry. He had grown a dark beard, possibly to cover the scar on his cheek, a memento from where
the Ecsoli had toyed with him. “Sire. Holindo sends word from the Second Tier. More reports from the Vigil of Ecsoli in the streets.”
Seto swore. “More of them? Someone is going to feel my boot heel most keenly.” Such occurrences had been growing more frequent of late. They made little sense – all the Ecsoli had been interned, of that he was certain. He’d led half a dozen sweeps of the Tiers himself in between rebuilding efforts – often using already captured Ecsoli as bait. If anyone remained, they were acting strangely indeed considering the armistice Seto had made clear throughout the city.
No, it had to be someone else, someone playing in blue cloaks. But to what end?
“We’ll catch one soon enough.”
“I hope that is true. Have they attacked anyone?”
“No. So far, they simply let themselves be seen before slipping away again.”
“Very well. Assign more men.”
Giovan hesitated before nodding. “Yes, sire.”
“I know we’re stretched thin, but I understand the walls are nearing completion and the harbour has been clear for some time; men seeking work have been arriving daily.”
“The vetting always takes longer than we hoped.”
“Indeed.” Seto shook his head. “The farmlands?”
“Barely enough men to work their own fields.”
Giovan glanced out one of the narrow, archer’s windows. The square below adjoined the wing chosen to be converted into a veritable prison for the housing of remaining Ecsoli, few of who had been released into the city to date. And no doubt that was who the sergeant was thinking of in terms of extra muscle.
“Where would you send them, Giovan? No-one in the city will work alongside them; they will become a double-burden. Send them into the countryside to help in the fields and we can no longer oversee them. Spread them across the lands as couriers or messengers and I face the same problem.”
“The ones you put in the quarry, how have they fared?”
“Well enough, thus far – but full freedom hangs over them still, so I do not know how trustworthy they are.”
“Perhaps we need to find out, sire?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Something like a dead man’s work-gang – offer them freedom and land if they succeed, rebirth essentially.”
“And if they fail?”
“The sword.”
He nodded. “And the task you would give them is to hunt those who masquerade as their countrymen?”
“Who better?”
“Possibly.” It wasn’t a bad idea, if it could be managed properly. Something Seto realised he ought to have considered earlier. And perhaps he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to need the invaders for anything. Still, what was pride but a weight on progress? If he could just find a way to be sure of those he sent into the streets. “Send someone to find Abrensi or Lavinia, then return to Holindo. Tell the captain we meet this afternoon.”
“It will be done,” Giovan said, turning back down the stairs.
Seto followed more slowly, his legs and back beginning to ache already. While he hadn’t exactly lied to Lor about enjoying the exercise, it was not so much a pleasure as one cruel necessity among many.
8. Ain
Ain lowered his hand-saw at a cry from the nearby dunes.
He shaded his eyes with his free hand; Majid’s sky-blue, Pathfinder robe – an echo of Ain’s own – fluttered in the breeze as he waved an arm. Majid called again, but his words were garbled by the rasp, thump and chatter of the excavation site. Dozens of men and women moved in and around the giant, weathered bones of the Sea God, some carrying slabs of bone, others with stretchers full, and yet more were cataloguing, sawing and digging to free the enormous spine from the sand.
Wayrn looked up from his writing, eyes troubled. He no longer wore his dark, acrobat’s clothing but a loose white tunic and brown pants; wisely he’d chosen a cooler set of clothing for the desert, which even now sent the sun pummelling down on everyone. “Is something amiss?”
“Let’s find out,” Ain said as he waved back to Majid.
But he did not leave at once. Instead, he took a moment to kneel and place his palm against the sand. The paths were no more audible than usual. They thrummed through his body, the echo of countless feet passing. Hooves, boots or otherwise, Ain felt them all. And here, so close to the Sea Beast bones, fewer paths were to be found than in the Oasis or the Wasteland, and even less need for a Pathfinder to identify safe trails to water, but people had still been visiting the giant bones for centuries.
What Ain could not sense, was the sharp pulsing from darklings. Since Vinezi and Marinus’ defeat, darkling sightings had become rare. Since he could not sense them now, it seemed unlikely that Majid had seen any. So what was amiss?
Ain started up the sloping dune.
Visitors perhaps? Or the Western Clan? Few stayed in Cloud Oasis after the wave of darklings had been broken. Maybe it was Schan, if the Snake Clan was heading to the Cloud? Only months but already it seemed too long since he’d spoken with his friend. “Trouble?” Ain asked once Majid was within earshot.
“I can’t say – but someone approaches,” Majid replied as he helped Ain up the final few steps. Ain turned to offer his own hand to Wayrn.
“That’s a significant cloud,” Wayrn said. “But it doesn’t look like a sand storm.”
“It cannot be darklings.” Majid frowned across the dune. “We’d feel it. What of your king’s last message, Wayrn?”
“He did not mention sending anyone.”
Ain narrowed his eyes. “They’re drawing down from the north – could it be mountain men from the Vakim Ranges?”
Majid frowned. “Possibly, but why? They number few and have not traded for two generations now.”
The cloud slowly drew closer, swirling sands concealing those within. Its speed was not swift, but the progress remained steady. The sand would be upon them soon enough – the sand and whatever it concealed.
And the wind and sand were doing a fine job of achieving exactly that.
“It’s no storm – it’s too... controlled,” Majid said, worry growing in his voice.
Majid was right.
Ain spun. “Sound the alarm! Arm yourselves,” he called down to the men and women below. Did they hear him? Wayrn was already halfway down the dune; he’d carry the message. Ain dropped to one knee, driving a hand into the sand once. Majid did the same. “I still don’t feel any darklings.”
“What if we’re overreacting?” Majid asked after a nod.
“Then we can laugh about it afterwards.”
“Sands, why can’t we feel whatever’s inside?”
Ain stood, drawing the short blade. Jedda had taught him enough that he wouldn’t be defenceless – but against a trained foe, he’d be in trouble, Pathfinder or no. Not that his Pathfinder magic was worth anything here, or so it seemed. Majid was bigger and stronger, better with steel but that didn’t mean his friend could stay right beside Ain if they were about to be attacked.
“An ally would have announced themselves before now,” Majid said as he ripped his hand axes free.
“We stop them here, whoever they are,” Ain said. He had to – not just for his people, but for Silaj and Jali. Having a young family to protect... it changed everything, as he had vaguely suspected it would, during their time apart.
But actually holding his infant son brought a fierceness rushing up within him – it almost engulfed the tenderness he felt when Jali had tried to grip his smallest finger the first time. He held on to that memory now.
Sands, no-one will take them.
A small crowd began to form at the top of the dune. Ain glanced at the nearest woman; she held a bow and arrow ready. Beside her in turn was a large man, Kavi, who Ain had last seen carrying a huge hunk of bone by himself. Now he gripped a large, two-handed blade.
“What lies within?” someone else asked.
“Darklings?” Another voice.
“We d
on’t believe so,” Ain said. “But we’re going to stop it. The Sands will preserve us.”
The strange sand storm seemed to rush up the dune. Ain raised his face coverings and readied his sword.
The sun dimmed.
A rasping filled the air, but its source could hardly be the swirling sand. Majid stood right beside him – yet the other Pathfinder was invisible. At Ain’s other side the woman with the bow was gone too. But the storm was empty... no, wait. Shapes were appearing before him. They stood tall and broad shouldered. Each could have come from one of the clans. Perhaps a dozen in total, the figures strode with purpose, but their faces were blank. They wore rags and carried no weapons but seemed unperturbed by the fact and the wind and stinging sand did not trouble them either.
“Halt,” Ain cried.
The nearest only walked on.
“Who are you? What do you seek?”
Still no answer. The next man was nearly upon him and Ain raised his weapon, only to have his hands falter. A deep, deep gash crossed the stranger’s entire stomach, blackened blood blending with dark skin at the edges. A corpse? What foul magic drove them forward?
The man raised his arm. Ain ducked, but too slow – a solid blow brushed him aside. He tumbled across the sand, finding his feet, only for something to crash into him from behind. Another walker; Ain caught the same empty expression on the face – only this close the dull green of the eyes was clear.
Plant-like eyes. No pupils, nothing but a sick-looking cactus-colour.
Ain gasped.
Not eyes at all – it was a living cactus plant that pushed through the eye-sockets from within!
Ain swung his sword.
It was no more than a reflex of shock, but his blade still cleaved the walker’s forearm. Hand and wrist hit the sand, soundless beneath the rasping in the wind. No blood burst from the stump. The man stumbled but resumed his walk, ignoring the wound. Ain swung at the abomination’s back.
His weapon lodged between the shoulder blades.
