The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Burning glass?”

  Felix nodded. “Anyone without a hint of magic can take a piece of glass shaped like this and hold it in the sun to start a fire. But a mage’s burning glass is different. There’s a very secret, ancient process to make the glass. Something about the glass in a mage’s burning glass focuses magic, not light. It’s a tricky thing to do, and it’s easy to singe your hair if you get it wrong.”

  “Kiara’s had some experience with exploding scrying balls,” Cerise noted dryly.

  Felix raised an eyebrow, and Kiara felt compelled to explain. “On the journey to help Tris take back his crown, we had a couple of bad experiences with scrying balls when too much power was concentrated through them. We were all picking glass shards out of sensitive places for a long time,” she added ruefully.

  “Well, then,” Felix said with a chuckle, “you’ll appreciate the genius of the burning glass. It’s designed to contain and amplify that power, rather than let the power blow it apart. Most mages don’t have the gift for it. They can barely harness their own power, let alone focus the power of several mages—”

  “Wait. This glass lets a mage focus more than his own power?” Kiara asked with sudden interest.

  Felix nodded again. “Not just mages’ power, but the power of magical objects as well.”

  Kiara frowned thoughtfully. “Magical objects… what about magical places?”

  Felix shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not much has been written about the burning glasses because they’re too rare. Perhaps the Oracle, or the Sisterhood, would know.”

  “I’m glad Royster is here,” Kiara said with a sigh. She glanced at Tice. “I want you to give him access to all of the palace archives. He’s spent a lifetime studying magical lore. Let’s see what he can find out for us about all of the gifts.”

  Kiara was thoughtful for a moment. “And in the meantime, can you please start thinking of the magical items it might be handy to focus with the glass? It might also not hurt to start thinking about the local places of power: temples, shrines, sacred mounds, haunted caves, that sort of thing. Plot them on a map. Maybe we’ll come up with something. There has to be a reason the ghost thought it was important for me to have this.”

  “As you wish,” Felix said. A glint in his eyes told Kiara that the quest intrigued him, and that his mind was already churning with possibilities.

  Kiara picked up the polished bone runes and was about to let them spill through her fingers when Brother Felix caught her hand before the first rune could fall. “Please don’t do that, Your Majesty,” he said breathlessly.

  “Why not?”

  Felix helped Kiara return the runes to the velvet cloth. “Rune magic is a delicate thing,” he said. “Many seers believe that to spill the runes is to invite fate. One does not do so lightly.”

  “I understand.” Kiara’s finger stroked the smooth bone surface of a rune. “I think these are the gift of the queen who believed too much in fortune-tellers. An odd gift, don’t you think?”

  “She was called by the rune for fate?” Felix asked.

  Kiara nodded. “She said that believing in predictions brought them about, and that she should have forged her own path rather than trying to find or evade what others said was fated for her.”

  “Then you have a lot in common with her.” Cerise’s observation startled everyone. “After all, the Divisionists think you’re a traitor. The Durim aren’t likely to believe you’re really ‘goddess blessed’ if they don’t recognize our particular goddess. Alvior and his foreign navy think you’re either not going to return to Isencroft or too weak to hold the throne. It’s up to you to follow your own path and prove them wrong… and prove us right,” she added with a smile.

  “I think I’ll take these to the Oracle and see what she makes of them,” Kiara said, wishing that she had a hot cup of kerif instead of the watered wine that threatened to make her sleepy.

  Balaren knelt beside the sword, studying it carefully without touching it. “I’m old enough to remember the eight clans,” he said ruefully. “Funny thing about immortality. If you exist long enough, useless information may one day become valuable.”

  “What do you recall?” Kiara asked, leaning forward and hoping that shifting her position would help to keep her awake.

  “Lord Gabriel and I are from the same times,” Balaren said quietly. “We remember when the Winter Kingdoms were wild lands ruled by warlords. Even among men who respected no law but their own, the eight clans of Isencroft were feared and given their due.” He paused, looking into the distance as he remembered a time long past.

  “When I was mortal, I was a soldier in the army of Warlord Ifran in Margolan. Ifran’s lands were on the border of what are now Margolan and Isencroft. War was nearly constant in those days, as the great lords fought for territory, trade routes, even women. The Margolan warlords were brutal and ruthless. Yet I’d have gone up against them any day rather than face the armies of the eight clan lords of Isencroft.”

  “Why?”

  “Legend said that the eight clan lords were descended from the direct offspring of the old gods. Back in those days, before the time of the Sacred Lady, most people worshipped their family spirits or the spirits of the rocks and trees and rivers where they made their livelihood. But many people worshipped the Shrouded Ones: Peyhta, Konost, and Shanthadura. Legend has it that the Wolf God came disguised as a man to each of the Shrouded Ones and seduced them. When they realized he had tricked them, it was too late. They were already pregnant with his seed.

  “The Shrouded Ones hated the Wolf God for his trickery, all the more so when they realized that each bore more than one babe. Each of them gave birth to triplets, and when the babes were born, the Shrouded Ones decided to destroy the Wolf God’s sons. Peyhta threw her three sons into a deep cave. Konost cast hers into the ocean. Shanthadura set her sons on the top of a mountain and called down fire and lightning. Yet the babes did not die.”

  “What happened?” Kellen asked, with an attentiveness that made Balaren smile.

  “Konost’s sons were found by fishermen and raised near the coast, where they became rich traders. Shanthadura’s sons were found by goat shepherds, who took them in and taught them how to become prosperous farmers and herders. Two of Peyhta’s sons were found by miners, where they learned to find precious stones underground. The third of Peyhta’s sons is said to have crawled away and gotten lost, finding his way to the surface far away from his brothers, among a nomadic people who were excellent horsemen. That son, by the way,” Balaren said with a glance toward Kiara, “is credited with becoming the founder of the line of Adares kings.”

  “If the eight warlords are the children of the Shrouded Ones, won’t that sword play right into the Durim’s quest to bring back Shanthadura’s worship?” Cerise asked, aghast.

  Balaren chuckled. “Who do you think banished her worship in Isencroft in the first place? When the sons of the Shrouded Ones were grown and learned how their mothers had tried to kill them, they swore vengeance and forbade the worship of the three goddesses. They were rather ruthless about enforcing the ban, slaughtering the priests and priestesses, destroying the shrines, murdering the faithful, and seizing any valuable temple goods. Within a few years, the old ways were gone, except among those in the most remote areas and a few who kept the rituals in secret.”

  Kiara grimaced. “Which explains where the Durim came from.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Kiara gently lifted the sword and turned it in her hands. It warmed to her touch immediately, though the grip was obviously made for a man. She turned to Balaren. “So if the legends are right, the eight clans were the mortal enemies of Shanthadura and the Durim?”

  “That’s correct.”

  She smiled. “Then this might be just the sword for the war we face, don’t you think?” With a groan, she rose and stretched. “If it’s not already dawn, it must be close to it. I’d best ride for the temple to see the Oracle before I fall asleep.�
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  Balaren gave a deep bow. “Patov and I must remain here in the crypts until nightfall, but Jorven can accompany you,” he said with a glance toward the vyrkin, who nodded.

  “Captain Remir and four of the guards will ride with you,” Allestyr added. He held up a hand to forestall Kiara’s objection. “Until you see the Oracle and make a public appearance, you haven’t quite completed the requirements to convey the throne. We need to take every precaution to keep you—and the baby—safe.”

  Reluctantly, Kiara nodded. “Let’s go then. I suspect it would make a poor impression for me to fall asleep during the Oracle’s prophecy.” She gathered up the items in the velvet cloth and carefully lifted the sword, lost in thought as they wound their way out of the necropolis and back to the corridors of Aberponte.

  All too soon, Kiara and her protectors were on their way to the temple of the Aspect Chenne, where the Oracle resided. “You’ve been to the temple before, haven’t you, m’lady?” Remir asked, riding beside Kiara.

  “A little over two years ago, before I went on my Journey. It was the Oracle who sent me to Westmarch, and because of that, I met Tris and, well, everything changed.”

  Remir raised an eyebrow. “Including the history of the Winter Kingdoms.”

  Kiara looked away uncomfortably. “I guess so.”

  “Aside from the fact that you’ve been up all night, you don’t seem very excited.”

  Kiara sighed. “I agree with father. I prefer advice that isn’t wrapped in riddles. And after the ghost’s warning about predictions, well, it didn’t make me feel any better about this whole thing.”

  Remir chuckled. “Then you’ll be following both the spirit of your father and the advice of the ghost queen if you’re skeptical. That’s not a bad thing. Queens shouldn’t believe everything they hear.”

  The forest seemed unnaturally silent when they hitched their horses to trees just outside the edge of the temple grounds. The Oracle’s temple was in a large clearing. The last time Kiara had visited was by moonlight, and she had been awed by how the white marble glistened even at night. In daylight, the temple shone and a reflecting pool sparkled in the sun. Beyond the pool, altar fires burned. The clearing was ringed by a ravine-shrine on three sides. In the glade, Kiara could see the statues of Isencroft’s military heroes, favored by the warrior-Aspect Chenne.

  Falcons shrieked and fluttered as Kiara and the others passed the mews. Kiara breathed a sigh of thanks that she had left Jae at home. She stopped, and then motioned the others to follow her as she left the path, heading toward a large monument.

  “Looks like Balaren knows his legends,” Kiara murmured. The marble carving showed eight men crouched or standing with swords upraised over the prone form of a shrouded woman. She touched the pommel of the sword the ghost had given her and felt a faint hum of energy in response.

  “It’s probably not a good thing to keep the Oracle waiting,” Remir prompted.

  With a glance over her shoulder at the monument of the eight clan warlords, Kiara turned back to the path. Ahead of her was a raised marble platform with eight broad steps, surrounded by eight gleaming marble pillars. Standing in the center of the platform was a white-robed woman. Kiara approached slowly and knelt, bowing her head. From her basket, she withdrew a gift of honey cakes and ale, the traditional offering to the Sacred Lady.

  “Your offering has been accepted, Kiara Sharsequin, daughter of Donelan, Queen of Isencroft. Rise, and ask your questions. If it is given to me to answer, I will do so.”

  Next, Kiara took out the items the spirit counselors had given to her and laid them at the feet of the Oracle. She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders, hoping the Oracle could not see how nervous she was. “My Lady,” she began, relieved her voice was steady. “I would hear your wisdom on the gifts of my spirit counselors, but more than that, I seek to understand what magic ties the nenkah to the child I carry within me, and the babe I left in Margolan.”

  The Oracle’s cowl obscured her face, and the long sleeves of her robe covered her hands, making Kiara wonder if any physical being was beneath the robes. Yet she knew from her last encounter that the Oracle was actually not one woman, but many, and that the priestesses of Chenne would be called by the spirit of the goddess to prophesy in her name.

  “Wise questions for a new queen.” The Oracle inclined her cowled head to survey the items laid at her feet.

  “Consanguinity. Focus. Fate and charisma. Powerful tokens. Magic, all of them.”

  “All?” Kiara asked, giving a questioning look at the beaded necklace.

  “Blood conveys magic, as blood draws magic. Only fools shed blood to work magic. The most powerful magic courses with the blood through living veins. Blood ties are among the strongest magic.”

  The Oracle moved her arm to point to the sword. “The ability to rally men to fight against great odds is also powerful magic. Blood alone does not guarantee it, nor does a crown. Yet for those who possess it and would use it wisely, it can turn the tide of fate.”

  Next, the Oracle pointed to the burning glass. “Pick up the glass.”

  Kiara complied, holding it with both hands along its narrow edge.

  “Hold it above the runes and draw on not just your own magic, but the magic around you, from this place, and from me.”

  Kiara shut her eyes and held the burning glass over the bone runes. She called to the place in herself where she had always found the faint magic to do scryings, and to her surprise, power leaped to answer her call. Kiara visualized that power flowing through her chest and into her arms, her hands, and, finally, the lens of the burning glass. Tentatively, she stretched out her senses to the grotto around her, aware for the first time that magic clung to every statue and tree, to the fountains and the still waters of the reflecting pool. Gradually, she felt the warm rush of magic answer her call, felt what her mind pictured as a gossamer sheath of golden light flow toward her from everything in the glade, and felt that power glide down her arms, through her hands, into the lens and channeled the magic to the runes.

  “Open your eyes, Kiara. Behold.”

  Kiara opened her eyes and saw that the burning glass in her hands glowed with golden light. Diffuse at the edges, too bright to stare at in the center, the light streamed down through the curved base of the lens and bathed the runes in its glow. As Kiara watched, the runes began to tumble of their own accord until they lay still in a new configuration.

  Unbidden, the golden light began to withdraw, washing back like a receding tide, and Kiara felt her own magic subside. The glow faded and disappeared, and Kiara lowered the burning glass.

  “Look to the runes, Kiara of Isencroft. Est, the rune of darkness, lies at cross-quarters to Telhon, family. Telhon in this position is masculine, and means father or son. The tip is pointed downward. Son. Son of Darkness. Sai, the death rune, faces Aneh, the rune of Chaos. Beside them is Vasht, the rune of burial. Most unusual. These three runes lie akimbo, signifying war. War among the dead, in the places of the dead. Whether Chaos is the outcome or originator, I cannot tell. But Katen, the rune of succession, depends upon the outcome of that war.” The Oracle paused. The next bone rune lay blank side up. “Most unusual. This rune follows Katen. It should speak to succession, yet it refuses to speak.”

  “When my son Cwynn was born, every rune lay blank side up. The runes refused to speak,” Kiara said quietly.

  “There is one more rune. Tivah, the rune for the Flow of magic. Tivah fell out of order. It should be between Katen and the rune that is blank, and yet it chose to fall last. It is a portent that the Flow plays an important part in what is to come.” The Oracle’s hand dropped to her side. “That is all the runes say to me.”

  “Thank you, m’lady,” Kiara said, making the sign of the Lady. “But what of my sons? Why do I sense Cwynn’s presence near the nenkah? How is it that the nenkah breathes and is warm to my touch when the coronation should have transferred its power back to me? How did it reach out to the child I
carry?”

  The Oracle inclined her head as if listening to a voice only she could hear. She did not speak, and Kiara feared her questions would go unanswered. Finally, the Oracle returned her attention to Kiara.

  “Your son, Cwynn. I see a knife, poison.”

  “Yes, m’lady. An assassin stabbed me with a knife tainted with wormroot when I carried Cwynn. I almost lost him. He seems healthy, but he’s not… right. Tris can sense no power in him, but Cheira Talwyn believes he is stronger than we know. I fear he may not be able to take the throne.”

  “Wormroot blocks a mage’s power, but so much, so early, has opened Cwynn to the power of the Flow long before he can control that power. He is lost in it, adrift, too young to know it from himself.”

  “And the nenkah?”

  The Oracle was silent for a moment. “Someone hunts your child. They seek to use his power. After you left him, he fled the darkness. A child follows its mother. Some part of his consciousness found your magic in the Flow and followed you here, where he found your spirit in the nenkah and took refuge. Your magic was imprinted on the nenkah and part of your spirit, and so he took refuge there.”

  “Can he be made whole?” Another terrifying possibility occurred to Kiara. “Does he live?”

  “He lives. But he is not whole. Dispel the darkness, and he can be led back to himself and the last of your spirit will return.”

  “How can he live if his consciousness is here, in the nenkah?”

  “Consciousness I sense, but not a soul. His essence has been split.”

  “Did the… darkness do that? Cwynn’s too young to know—”

  “Fish emerge from their eggs and swim. Hatchlings fly. Turtles walk as soon as they leave the egg. Abilities do not have to be understood to be done.” She paused. “Cwynn’s consciousness searched for you and recognized you, and the energy of the babe you carry. Guard the nenkah as you would your son.”

  “And the child I carry?”

  “The future is uncertain. A War of Unmaking is upon us. If you survive the battle, the son you will bear will be a great leader, but not a mage. Whether he is a king or a renegade depends upon the outcome of the war. He will rise up against his enemies and challenge the Abyss itself.” The Oracle grew quiet. “Leave me now. I have told you all I see. The blessing of Chenne be upon you.”