She took a long last look at Kol’s lifeless form, grief still heavy in her chest.
Then she turned and left, heading for Fedris Idri.
Chapter 52
Wirr rolled his shoulders, sensing more than seeing Elder Eilinar’s glare.
There was a stony silence as the group walked deeper into the Tol, broken only by the occasional nervous cough from one member of the Council or another. Wirr scowled to himself. His arrival at the Tol, and his announcement that he was going to change the Tenets, had been met with open arms. His insistence that Davian accompany him to do so had not.
He glanced across at his friend, who was walking alongside, evidently lost in thought. The Council had been furious at Wirr’s obstinacy, going so far as to call Davian a threat after what he’d done to Ilseth Tenvar. Eventually, though, Elder Eilinar had relented—if not graciously.
Wirr could still feel the man’s anger emanating from him whenever they locked gazes, but he didn’t care. He was here for one purpose only: to fulfill his father’s dying wish. To make sure his sacrifice had not been in vain.
“I would have understood, you know,” murmured Davian suddenly, as if reading his thoughts. “You didn’t have to rile them on my account.”
Wirr shrugged. “I needed someone with me for this. Someone I can trust.”
Davian inclined his head. “Still. I’m not sure that I blame Elder Eilinar. I probably wouldn’t want me involved in this, either, after what happened this morning.”
Wirr gave him a stern sideways glance. “What you did to Tenvar was an accident, Dav,” he said. “You were doing what needed to be done—and honestly, it’s not like the man didn’t deserve it.”
Davian grimaced, but nodded. He watched his friend for a moment. “How are you holding up?”
Wirr gritted his teeth, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. He’d managed to push what had happened to the back of his mind for now, and he wanted it to stay there, to keep the emotions at bay until this was done. “There will be time for grief later. This is what my father wanted,” he said grimly.
Davian gave him another nod, accepting the statement in silence.
After a while they came to a halt in front of a large, solid-looking steel door; Elder Eilinar pressed his hand against its surface, releasing the wards that protected it. Once he was done, he produced a set of keys and opened it, holding it ajar so that everyone could pass through.
Wirr stared around the chamber within as he entered. It was entirely empty of furnishings except for a thick, squat table in the center, which itself looked carved from the same black rock as the rest of the room. In all, it seemed unremarkable.
Nashrel waited until all the Elders were inside and then walked over to the table, placing a hand on it with something approaching reverence as he closed his eyes. He murmured a few words under his breath, and Essence began flowing from him into the stone.
Wirr watched, wide-eyed. The table turned a deeper shade of black; suddenly the torches on the walls were reflected by its now-glistening dark surface. Then there was a rippling, a shimmering in its center; it began to stretch and morph as something new rose out of the stone.
Wirr stared. It appeared to be an ornate shield—but too large, taller and wider than even the largest of men, impossible to wield.
“This is the Vessel through which you will need to rebind the Tenets, Your Grace,” Nashrel explained to Wirr, eyes not leaving the shield. “You must place your hand on it, keeping a steady stream of Essence flowing into it, and speak the vows that you want all the Gifted to be bound by.”
Wirr frowned at the shield. “That’s it?”
Nashrel nodded. “Your new vows should take the place of the old ones. Beyond that…” He shrugged. “The Tenets have never been successfully changed, and this Vessel was not made by us, so I cannot speak as to any other consequences.”
Davian and Wirr both stared at the shield. Its steel was almost as black as the table beneath, and as Wirr took a closer look, he saw that it was covered by hundreds of finely inscribed symbols.
“Who did make it?” Wirr asked abruptly. “Where did it come from?”
“Only the Loyalists know the answer to that question,” said Nashrel. His glance flicked to Wirr, then away again.
“Why doesn’t someone just destroy it?” asked Davian.
Nashrel shook his head. “That is why it is left in Athian’s care, hidden, and not at the palace. If it were destroyed, we suspect that the Tenets could not be undone. Its terms would last forever.”
“Then perhaps that is what we must do,” came a deep voice from the entrance.
Wirr spun, heart sinking as soon as he saw the blue cloak. All the Administrators were supposed to have left, called to fight at Fedris Idri.
Then he grimaced as the man stepped forward into the light.
“Ionis. I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be,” Wirr said quietly. “We need the Gifted to be able to fight, else the city will fall, and we’ll all die.”
“Then we will all die, Your Grace,” replied Ionis, his tone calm. “An unpleasant fate, and yet preferable to having the bleeders running things again. I lived through those times, Prince Torin. I’ll not return to them.”
Wirr turned back to the shield, away from the Administrator. “You don’t have a choice.”
“Actually, I do. Prince Torin, I command you by the Fourth Tenet. Do not use Essence unless I tell you to.”
Wirr gasped as his hand froze, only inches above the shield. He scowled, concentrating, willing his hand downward. Instead he found himself pulling back, away from the metallic surface.
He took a couple of steps away from the table, until it was well out of reach. Then, able to move freely again, he rounded on Ionis.
“Administrator, you must do as I tell you. Fates, man, I’m the prince; I’m the Northwarden now! Release me to do as I wish, or I’ll have you strung up for treason!”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I won’t be doing that.” Ionis looked… composed. Almost unconcerned. With good reason, too, Wirr realized dully. So long as the original Tenets remained in place, Ionis was safe. “And I suspect that of the two of us, once King Andras finds out what has happened here today, it might rather be you looking at the hangman’s noose,” the Administrator added.
Wirr flinched, remembering his last conversation with his uncle. “What do you want?”
Ionis leaned forward, and Wirr shuddered as he caught the look in his eye. There was a hint of mania there, an unmistakably zealous fire. “I want you to create a new, single Tenet. That any man, woman, or child who is Gifted must take their own life.”
Wirr felt himself pale, and there were gasps of horror from around the room, which had been utterly silent up until now. “You can’t,” he said suddenly. “You’re an Administrator; you took the Oath. The Third Tenet binds you just as much as us—you cannot cause harm, physical or otherwise, to any of the Gifted.”
Ionis inclined his head, looking unperturbed. “And perhaps if our positions were reversed, that would stop you. You may not realize it, but for some Administrators, their interpretation of ‘harm’ means that they cannot act to even upset one of the Gifted deliberately.” He took a step forward, eyes glittering in the torchlight. “But not me. This power, the ‘Gift’ as you call it—it is a disease. I believe that, more deeply than I have ever believed anything. So you see, Prince Torin, doing this to the Gifted… it is not causing them harm. Far from it. It is putting them out of their misery. It is helping them.”
Wirr shivered under Ionis’s gaze. He didn’t want to believe the man, and yet there was something in his eyes, a fearsome certainty that what he was doing was right. In that moment, Wirr knew that the Administrator truly thought that he was doing the Gifted a kind of twisted favor.
“You’re insane,” he said softly. “We could help, Ionis. We could fight the Blind.”
“The long term is the only thing that matters, Your Highness,” said Ionis.
His jaw clenched in helpless frustration. He’d known this was a weakness; it had been one of the most pressing reasons to keep his abilities a secret in the first place. His father had always been concerned that an Administrator would find the temptation of having a prince under their control too hard to resist.
And apparently, Ionis had seen the same flaw—seen the opportunity. All that remained now was for him to give the order.
The Administrator leaned forward. “Prince Torin, by the Fourth Tenet I order you to—”
Suddenly Ionis’s smug expression faltered, and he stopped in midsentence. His eyes widened, and his breath came in short, ragged gasps. He spun, looking directly at Davian as his body began to spasm.
“What are you doing?” he groaned, collapsing to the floor.
Wirr turned to Davian. His friend was making no outward appearance of effort, simply staring at the Administrator with a grim expression. There could be no doubt, though. Thin tendrils of light streamed from Ionis’s violently shaking form into Davian, vanishing as soon as they touched the boy’s skin.
Suddenly the stream halted.
“Release him,” said Davian quietly. “Please. I have no wish to do this. Release him to change the Tenets, and I will let you live.”
Ionis gave a racking cough, looking twice the age he had a few moments before. He stared at Davian in utter fear, and for an instant Wirr thought he was going to comply.
Then he twisted away with an effort of will, shouting the words.
“Prince Torin, by the Fourth Tenet I—”
He cut off in a desperate, rage-filled shriek.
Ionis’s body began to age, wrinkles appearing on his face, his skin sagging and creasing, his features becoming gaunt. Then his skin and muscles began to wither and decay, slowly at first but with increasing speed, until the white of the bone underneath began to show through.
As the last wisps of light were sucked from the corpse, even the skeleton itself collapsed in a slight puff of powdery white dust.
Wirr stared at the small pile of grime on the floor, a chill running down his spine.
“I had to,” said Davian softly. He shook his head, his hands and arms glowing with the light of the Essence he had drained from Ionis. “I had to be sure he didn’t say it.”
Wirr looked up at his friend, for the first time really seeing how much Davian had changed since Deilannis. He was… harder now. As if whatever he’d gone through over the last couple of months had sucked the innocence out of him. The changes were subtle, but they were there. It was still his old friend, but a bleaker version. A more world-weary version.
A moment later the full consequences of what had just happened hit home, and the pain of how close he’d come became sharp in his chest.
“I can’t change the Tenets now,” he realized, shaking his head in steadily growing dismay. “Ionis is dead; he can’t rescind the order. I can’t use Essence.”
There was silence for several seconds, then he felt a hand on his shoulder. “What if we remove the Fourth Tenet?” Davian asked.
“What do you mean?”
Davian gestured toward the shield on the table. “Ionis only stopped you from using Essence, not from altering the Tenets,” he observed. “You said you needed someone here that you trusted. Trust me now, Wirr. If you’ll let me, I’ll change the Tenets exactly as you ask—word for word. From what you told me, all you need to do is stand there. I do the rest.”
Wirr found himself suddenly, unexpectedly smiling. He hadn’t been called Wirr in weeks now. It felt good to hear the name aloud again.
He inclined his head. Whatever he’d been through… Davian was his friend. He could trust him.
“Then let’s get started before there are any other complications,” he said, glancing again at the pile of dust on the floor where Ionis had been standing.
Davian nodded. “Good idea. What I took from Ionis should be enough, but we do need to be fast. I have to hold Essence outside my body if I want to use it, and I can’t stop it decaying any more than you could.”
Wirr strode over to the shield and hesitantly placed his hand against it. As Davian had suspected, now his intent was not to use Essence, he was able to touch the Vessel. Davian gave him a tight smile, then placed a hand on the shield, too.
“Your Grace, if I may interject.” It was Nashrel, looking on with a worried expression. “I mean no offense to young Davian here”—he nodded politely at Davian—“but if you need someone else to assist you after all, I would… feel more comfortable if you used one of the Elders instead. After what happened to Ilseth Tenvar, one of the Gifted and a man ostensibly under our protection…” He shook his head. “At the very least, perhaps you should be writing down the exact wording of the Tenets you are going to create. The current ones took months of discussion and negotiation before they were settled upon. Let us take a few minutes to go over them with you, advise you on how best to—”
Wirr shook his head. “I’ve known these words for years, Elder Eilinar,” he interrupted gently. “And I mean no offense to the Council, but I don’t trust anyone else to help me. It’s that simple.” He turned back to Davian. “Now. All you need to do is repeat after me, and keep a steady flow of Essence going into the shield. The Vessel should do the rest.”
Davian nodded, taking a deep breath and glancing around at the Elders, who were all watching with keen interest. “I’m ready.”
Wirr closed his eyes, remembering the words.
“‘I swear I shall not use Essence to harm or hinder non-Gifted, except in cases of self-defense or for the purposes of protecting Andarra.’”
Davian hesitated.
“‘I swear I shall not use Essence to harm or hinder non-Gifted, except in cases of self-defense or for the purposes of protecting Andarra,’” he repeated, a thin line of Essence flowing from him into the shield.
Wirr released a breath he’d been unconsciously holding. He did trust his friend, but if Davian had chosen to alter the wording, there would have been nothing Wirr could have done about it.
The symbols on the shield had begun to glow with an intense blue light. It was working.
Wirr continued, “‘I swear I will not use Essence with the intent to deceive, intimidate, or otherwise work to the detriment of non-Gifted, except in cases of self-defense or for the purposes of protecting Andarra.’”
Davian said the words back to him, enunciating carefully and clearly.
Wirr smiled as the symbols glowed blue again. “‘I swear that as no Administrator may kill or bring harm of any kind to me, I shall not kill or bring harm of any kind to an Administrator.’” After Ionis, Wirr had decided to tweak that Tenet a little.
Davian repeated the phrase word for word. When he was done, Wirr took a deep breath, then gave Davian a shaky grin.
“That’s it,” he said softly.
* * *
Davian let out a long breath as the symbols on the shield began to fade.
He should have felt ecstatic at changing the Tenets—felt something—but instead his gaze was drawn to the pile of dust that had once been Ionis.
Leaving the Administrator alive had been too great a risk. If Ionis had had even a few more seconds, managed to finish his sentence, then Davian’s only option would have been to stop Wirr in the same manner. Even with so many lives at stake, he wasn’t sure he could have done that.
He frowned as he thought about what he’d done. A detached part of him understood, perhaps for the first time, how deeply experiencing Malshash’s memory had affected him. Killing a man in cold blood—even a man such as Ionis, even in defense of something far greater than himself—should have shaken him to his core.
It hadn’t.
He rubbed his forehead, glancing down at the smoo
th skin on his forearm. After all of that, had it been worth it? He exchanged glances with Wirr. Nothing seemed to be happening.
“I did everything I was supposed to do,” Davian said worriedly. “Did it—”
Wirr’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed.
Davian dashed forward to help him, but a sudden flash of pain—mild, but noticeable—on his exposed forearm made him hesitate. He glanced down to see the familiar tattoo forming, glowing slightly, just as the symbols on the shield had a moment earlier. He’d bound himself to the Tenets again, even if they were different this time. Bound all of the Gifted, in fact.
He felt a stab of concern, of doubt. Had he done the right thing? He turned his attention to the Council members, watching as they examined their own forearms in fascination.
As quickly as it had come, the pain and the light faded.
“Is it done?” asked one of the Council members.
Nashrel stared at his arm, then at Wirr’s prostrate form. “I believe it is,” he said slowly. “There is only one way to find out, though. Marshal everyone.” The other Council members began filing out, whispering among themselves.
Davian knelt by Wirr. He was still unconscious, but his breathing was regular and deep.
“He’s alive,” said Davian with relief. He took off his well-worn cloak and created a makeshift pillow. Wirr’s head had hit the stone floor hard when he’d fallen, but there was no blood.
Nashrel nodded his acknowledgement. He crouched down on the other side of Wirr and placed his hand on the prince’s forehead, a small stream of Essence trickling out of him.
“He’s fine,” said Nashrel after a moment. “We’re a long way from any beds here, though. It’s probably safer if we wait until he wakes up before moving him.”
Davian nodded. “I’ll stay,” he said. “I’m sure you have other things to attend to.”
Nashrel inclined his head, turning to go. Then he hesitated.
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