Valley of Embers (The Landkist Saga Book 1)

by Steven Kelliher

  “The Rivermen are supposed to be resilient,” Kole said. “If Baas Taldis is cut from the same cloth, it doesn’t surprise me.”

  “He act like this?” Misha asked, nudging her spear toward the joyful caravan.

  “Not exactly,” Kole admitted.

  As it turned out, Undermiddle was an apt name for the structure Karpi led them to, if you could call it a structure—more a slab of slate that leaned at an awkward angle. A three-step stair was dug into the earth beneath it, along with a doorway absent frame. Though it looked as though the slab could collapse at any instant, crushing those beneath it, Karpi entered with a twirl while the other children milled about and made faces at the Ember pair.

  They entered a chamber that was just as sparse as Kole had imagined. A fire burned in the center pit and the dirt-packed walls had benches dug out along the entire length. There were many open seats. The ceiling was low enough to force Misha to keep her spear level, something not all in the room seemed to appreciate.

  As for the occupants, these were the fighting men and women the Embers had expected. There were perhaps two score, most holding axe or hammer—some a combination of the two. Kole noted that most of the weapons were carved from a solid piece of stone; it was a wonder they could lift them at all. Great shields of pitted steel leaned in the empty slots along the walls, reflecting the firelight like angry suns.

  Misha nudged Kole in the direction of a far corner, where a particularly squat, barrel-chested man watched from the shadows.

  “That one’s staring at you.”

  “They all are.”

  “That one’s really staring.”

  The brute was bandaged in so many places it was a wonder they hadn’t wrapped him for burial. He stood slowly, unsteady, and shuffled forward.

  “Kole?” he said, a sound like grating timbers.

  “Baas?”

  The initial flood of relief Kole experienced upon seeing someone from the Lake was supplanted almost immediately by the realization that Linn and the others were not with him. Given the state the Riverman was in, Kole felt his heart sink like a stone.

  “I see you two know each other.”

  Kole and Misha turned to see an old man standing on the opposite side of the fire. He was adorned in simple skins in place of the leather and iron sported by most of the company, and he bore an unmistakable resemblance to Baas. Kole had not noticed him upon entering.

  “You are?”

  Misha, Kole was learning, was not one for first impressions. All in the Valley were used to conflict, but Ve’Gah seemed to breath it. He tossed her a look, which she pointedly ignored.

  If the elder had taken any offense, he played it off well. Kole glanced at Baas, whose expression was similarly unreadable.

  “I am Braden Taldis,” the old man said, “and I am the grandfather of your fellow Lakeman there.” He indicated Baas, who continued to stare at Kole.

  “Old Farsight!” Karpi called from somewhere in the back.

  Braden made a low rumbling that could have been a laugh, though it emanated as if from the walls themselves. He reminded Kole of Tu’Ren, and even of Garos Balsheer, whom he had recently met on the walls of Hearth. Apparently each of the peoples of the Valley had one great bear among them, a figure of strength and solidarity in the midst of ever-present chaos. He struggled to picture what such a man might look like among the Faey.

  “Your borders are unprotected,” Misha said, drawing a few more rumbles from the crowd, these ones decidedly less mirthful.

  “They appear so,” Braden said with an easy smile.

  “You are a Seer,” Kole said.

  “What is sight but the colors of the mind, eh?” Braden said, stepping a little closer as he examined the Embers. A few of the more battle-worn warriors stepped forward protectively. Misha’s spear swayed in their direction like a cat’s twitching tail.

  “You followed our trail,” Braden said.

  “Yes,” Kole said shortly. He very much wanted to speak with Baas, his stress redoubling by the second.

  “Ease,” Braden said, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. The room breathed, Kole included. Misha fought the sensation, shifting from foot to foot, but she lowered the tip of her spear until it was even with the dirt.

  “We must have our answers,” Braden said, calm but firm. “You followed us here, but that is not why you’ve come.”

  “No,” Kole admitted, ignoring Misha.

  “You came to do what my grandson failed to.”

  He stated it as fact, and Kole saw Baas’s broad shoulders slump. Braden stepped forward and placed a hand on a bandaged shoulder.

  “Truth only has the power to hurt if we fail to recognize its power to lead,” he said. There were nods and murmurs of agreement, but Baas still had the look of a whipped dog.

  “I can’t speak to Baas,” Kole said, “but I’d say you’ve guessed the truth of it.”

  “To kill the White Crest,” Braden said, and there were a few gasps.

  Kole nodded hesitantly and then turned a look of earnest pleading Baas’s way.

  “Tell me what happened,” he implored. “Tell me they’re alive.”

  Baas shifted under the stare.

  “I lost them in a storm,” he said. “The survivors, in any case.”

  Kole did not know Baas well. The Riverman had ever held himself apart from the defenses during the Dark Months, a source of disdain among some of Last Lake’s Emberfolk, Keepers chief among them. He did not know which member of the party Kole was most invested in.

  “My grandson does not remember much from the encounter,” Braden said. “He was found buried under a mountain of loose stone. Were he not Rockbled, there is no telling how many pieces he’d be in.” He turned a prideful look on Baas. “He would have gone after them himself had we not dragged him back to the Fork.”

  “And the others?” Kole asked, more forcefully this time.

  “Two of your Embers fell,” Braden said, and Baas squeezed his eyes shut. Whether it was a look of sorrow, rage or pain, it was impossible to tell. “The others fled. We found no trace of them, though their path led to the Deep Lands, to the deepest and most rabid mouth of the River F’Rust. We could not follow.”

  “Two Embers,” Misha said, breathless. “Not Holspahr.” She looked to Kole, who nodded solemnly, thoughts racing.

  “Larren was buried with me,” Baas said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “The one that turned?” Braden prompted, and Baas nodded.

  The elder looked back to Kole.

  “Your Keeper was corrupted by a Sentinel. It was he whom the others fought, and whom Baas brought down in the cave.”

  “You beat Larren?” Kole asked, astonished.

  Baas shrugged as if he genuinely did not know.

  “He is Rockbled,” Braden said, as if that were explanation enough. “There are few of us left, but more than enough to make our stand against those beasts. Many have forgotten the songs of the earth, but rock and river runs through this one’s veins.”

  “I must admit I’ve never seen a Rockbled fight,” Misha said. “But I find it hard to believe you bested Larren Holspahr.”

  Kole knew Larren had been of Hearth before he settled with a woman from Last Lake. He wondered if he had any connection to the Ve’Gah’s. Or perhaps it was merely Landkist posturing.

  “I did not fight alone,” Baas said. “Jenk Ganmeer and Linn Ve’Ran were there after Kaya fell. The fisher’s boy, too. Nathen.”

  The mention of Linn’s name centered Kole, as did the realization that Kaya Ferrahl was dead.

  “This corruption is a new thing,” Braden said. “We have never known the Darklings to turn anything but rats, worms and the like.”

  “We’ve never had to face their Sentinels,” Misha said. “This isn’t just some rift like those that open during the Dark Months. This is an invasion, complete with Captains and all from the World Apart.”

  “A Sage’s errand boys,” Kole said bitt
erly.

  Braden looked at him curiously.

  “Strange, is it not, for one of the Emberfolk to question the White Crest?”

  “I didn’t say his name.”

  “No,” Braden allowed. “I suppose you did not.” His gaze lingered, searching.

  “I have a question,” Misha said, interrupting the exchange. She lanced a finger at Baas. “Why was this one raised at Last Lake, among the Emberfolk?”

  Baas’s look was steady, and Braden placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “I often sent my son Aerek to the Ember towns and villages on errands,” he said. “He was lean and handsome—much easier on the Emberfolk eyes than many of us.” He smirked, as if the story need not go on. “The days of conflict between our people are long since past.”

  “Not so long,” Misha said under her breath.

  “My grandson is one caught between worlds,” Braden said. “But we all are, us Valleyfolk, in our own way. Only the Faey can truly claim to come from here, and even they may be fallen leaves from far-off trees. We are all of us orphans in our own way. We are together in this darkness.”

  “Together?” Misha’s mood shifted, anger boiling over as her heat rose. “I for one am no orphan. My mother and father are currently cowering behind the walls of Hearth along with the rest.”

  All eyes in the room shifted to Braden Taldis, awaiting his response—all, that is, except for Kole’s, which were currently boring holes into the side of Misha’s sweating temple.

  “No Runners came to offer us sanctuary,” Braden said, “though I have no doubt Captain Caru would have, had he the time. We made our own place. I would bid you point your anger where it belongs, to the Sage at the peaks. Magic such as theirs is nothing but an abomination. All of its roads lead only to corruption. To court the creatures of the World Apart.” He spat.

  “You won’t try to stop us, then?” Kole asked. “Your people could earn retribution should we fail.”

  Braden studied him before switching his gaze to Misha.

  “This one has followed you out here because she believes in ending the scourge of the Eastern Dark,” he said. “But you and I both know that is not the Sage residing in the peaks, though his magic is thick about the Valley.”

  Misha looked askance at Kole, but he continued to look straight ahead.

  “Prove her right, for following you.”

  “My mother used to travel these paths,” Kole said. “She was friend to all in the Valley, Rivermen and Faey alike. She came to these peaks to plead with the White Crest. She did not believe he had fallen. I believe she was right.”

  He looked at the ground, where the orange glow of flame mixed with the dark brown earth to make something close to crimson.

  “I’ve seen her blood mix with the rain every night since. I’m done waiting behind walls or hiding beneath rocks like worms in the garden.”

  He looked up, and noted that all eyes were on him. He did not try to read them.

  “I knew Sarise A’zu,” Braden said, and it was Kole’s turn to look shocked. “In passing, maybe, but I knew her. My Rockbled will accompany you. The Sage has not left all his tricks down in the Valley—of that you can be sure.”

  He took a step closer.

  “One stone can change the course of a river, no matter how strong the current,” he said. “Only take care you do not presume that stone to be you, Kole Reyna.”

  Kole swallowed. Several of the Rivermen stepped out of the shadows, hands gripping stone weapons. There looked to be a dozen or more that intended to join the Embers, and Baas was one of them.

  Braden noted his grandson’s advance and made as if to speak, but a look from Baas silenced him.

  “Very well,” Braden said, leading the way out of the Undermiddle and into the cool night air of the Steps.

  The Rivermen warriors moved off into the camp, presumably to gather what gear they needed, perhaps to say their goodbyes. It was difficult to tell which of them were Rockbled, but Kole thought a few seemed more solid, striding as if mountains might move out of their way rather than make trouble.

  Kole and Misha stood alongside Braden, who watched Baas’s slow steps.

  “Do not worry on my grandson,” he said. “The World chooses its guardians well.” He looked up, his gray eyes seeming to pierce through the vapors of the Steps and the dark wisps of cloud above.

  “Why did you never attempt it before?” Kole asked, and Braden regarded him coolly. “Your people have ever held a deep distrust of the Sages, our supposed protector among them. Why not seek him out? Make him answer?”

  Braden paused. He had an audience now as several of the warriors milled about, Baas carrying a huge pitted shield that looked to be made entirely of stone. Kole felt a fool for asking.

  “Our people, like yours, came to this Valley to escape the wars of the Sages,” Braden said. “We came out of fear. I suspect that to be the reason we have stayed. I do not presume to know the truth surrounding the darkness that assails us now, but I know it was not the White Crest’s doing alone.”

  “How do you know it was him at all?” Misha asked, though her tone was now subdued.

  “Ninyeva is not the only one to recognize the talents of the Faeykin,” Braden said. “I have seen things. I have heard a beating like great hearts these last years. It has grown, like something dead now living. I cannot escape the sound any longer. It is a sound of ending, and now I have seen the source.”

  “Where?” Baas asked. “How?”

  “A young girl showed me the keep just the other night,” he said with a smile. “In dreaming. She had bright green eyes and hair the color of mountain caps.”

  “Green eyes?” Kole asked.

  Braden smiled at him.

  “I suspect you know the source,” he said. “She told me to expect you, as well.”

  Braden took Kole by the arm and guided him away from the gathered warriors, as well as Misha, who looked on suspiciously. He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath smelling of ginger.

  “It may sound foolish to say, but do not underestimate a Sage, no matter how dormant he may seem.”

  “I won’t,” Kole said.

  “Some say they were the first Landkist,” Braden said.

  “Do you believe that?”

  Braden paused and considered the field as it stretched out before them, ending abruptly at the base of the next shelf.

  “Whatever they were, they have long since forgotten,” Braden said. “That is what I believe.”

  “What could the White Crest gain from all this?” Kole asked, earning an amused look from the elder.

  “You are beginning to doubt your conviction?”

  “I’ve always doubted it. Vengeance is good motivation. It’s rarely innocent, or all the way true.”

  Braden nodded, seeming impressed. He laid a hand on Kole’s armored shoulder, and even through the black scales, the strength was immediately apparent. Kole felt very small of a sudden. He suspected there was a point to be made there, whether or not Braden had intended it.

  “The Landkist may not be as potent as the Sages in power,” Braden said, “but the Sages know we are the key to winning their private war. Quaint as this Valley must seem to the wider World, it represents a fine opportunity to horde such treasures as you away from the rest.”

  “The Eastern Dark,” Kole said. “You think he wanted us here? The Embers.”

  “Embers, Rockbled, Faeykin,” Braden said. “I do not know. I would not assume the White Crest to be himself these days. So many are not, even those who started as our friends. I suspect you’ll find the truth of it soon enough.”

  Braden turned to stand square with Kole.

  “Do not worry too much, Reyna,” he said. “This burden does not fall upon you alone. Do not doubt the prowess of our sons and daughters, though the stones can seem slow and unmoving on the surface. Just the same, do not let the flame be too quick to violence. Be sure that yours burns in the right direction.”

  There w
as nothing left to say, so they said nothing.

  Kole made sure to find Karpi and give her white fingers another squeeze before they departed.

  They set off just before dawn, two cinders ringed by their dozen stones.

  Taste was the first sensation that returned—saliva and the crusted, metallic blood of lips gone too long without moisture. Smell would be next, but before it came, she had to remember the path she had taken.

  Ninyeva called it the haze of unreality, and Iyana was feeling it keenly as she came back to herself. She had let intuition guide her through the tunnels of Linn’s dreaming and had spent longer than she should have navigating the milky roads of the Between. After years of being able to do little more than heal scrapes and ease the pain of the passing, Iyana had tapped into the true gift of the Faeykin. She was Landkist.

  When she had run to the Faey Mother, Ninyeva was not surprised in the least. She helped to center Iyana and her ensuing tutelage had better prepared her for the trip she returned from now, wending her way back from the webbed dreams of the Riverman.

  Build a net and tether, Ninyeva had said. Find this and follow it down, from branch to root, until you come back to yourself.

  Iyana had set out to find Kole, but there was no tether she could feel, no connection to guide her to him. She saw him as if from a great distance, moving through the northern Valley with an Ember of Hearth. It was like following an echo. She traced the ripples and found them belonging to another Landkist. She had descended into his mind uninvited. It had been a far cry from steering the consciousness of a firefly.

  The elder had ensnared her almost immediately, and she was caught fast in a prison of untold depth, encased in imagined stone so tight it squeezed the breath from her lungs. A man stood before her, squat and broad-shouldered, his sturdy outline stark against the black cave of his mind, his thoughts hidden away from prying eyes.

  Iyana could not remember much from their exchange, but the man had released her. In truth, he seemed more concerned with how she had entered his mind than why. He knew of the Embers’ approach, and he had promised to assist them on their road to the peaks. She trusted him, though she had little reason to.