Nightforged?
Items like this bracelet.
So we have a shadowbond, and you can help me in certain ways. Got it. But you were thinking of doing something different.
I was. I’m sorry. When I was young, I was bonded to a spirit-infused dagger. A boy’s soul was trapped inside it. His name was Tyrak.
And? I said. From outside the garrison bedchamber, I heard shouts of greeting. More protectors had been arriving through the early hours. During our flight across the grasslands and into the mountains, we’d sent word to the guard posts beyond Westpass Cut. As each group of reinforcements arrived, squads of rested soldiers were being dispatched to the grasslands to help escort and protect the citizens of Jaliss.
Tyrak taught me to fight. He joined with me at times, adding his energy and experience to mine, and together we defeated enemies I could never have faced alone. But I was foolish and impulsive as a young woman. I got myself into a very bad situation once and refused to recognize the consequences. Tyrak did more than lend his strength that time. He took control of my body and forced me to be calm when I wanted to fight back.
Outside the small window, the new arrivals were congregating in the inner yard. Grim faces looked to the Prime and Sirez as they delivered explanations and orders.
So if I don’t agree with you, you’ll take over my body and force me to do what you want? My hand hovered over the bracelet. I’d remove it if she tried; I needed advice and guidance in the days ahead, but I didn’t want to be controlled.
Tyrak saved my life that day, Lilik said quietly. But it took me a long time to realize it and an even longer time to forgive him. I’ve waited centuries—we’ve waited centuries, trapped inside this tides-pulled bracelet for the chance to help you win this. I won’t lie and say it’s easy to offer advice and nothing more. But I swear to you that I won’t do what Tyrak did to me.
A raw edge entered her voice when she spoke of the bracelet. I knew it must’ve been difficult—a tremendous sacrifice—to agree to such a long imprisonment. But I’d never sensed any bitterness from her. Much like the flatness I’d felt from her after Steelhold’s fall, the emotion was new.
Do you believe me? she asked after I’d sat silently considering her words.
I’m trying to. It would help if you explained why you’ve been so distant? I understand your worry for Parveld—but it would be easier for me to free him with your help.
Silence followed my question. I turned my head from the window when Kostan’s breath quickened. His fingers twitched, and I resisted the urge to grab his hand. It wasn’t the first time he’d seemed to enter a dreaming state. Occasionally, his eyelids cracked open. But he usually calmed shortly afterward.
I’d like to say that both Raav and I accepted the potential consequences of our imprisonment without reservation, Lilik began. We knew there was a chance, ever so slight, that things wouldn’t turn out as we’d envisioned. But the truth is, I never imagined Parveld would fail. He was so serious. So dedicated. The deepest parts of my soul ache for him. And for us.
But that’s exactly why I need you now. I don’t want to leave him like—wait… when you say you accepted the consequences of your imprisonment, do you mean that Parveld was supposed to free you?
At the time, we weren’t even certain he could. But I always believed he would figure it out.
The horror of the situation settled into my chest. But without him, you’re trapped in there forever? Even if I release him from the madness so that he can finally cross the veil, you won’t be able to join him?
I don’t know, Lilik said. But—
Most likely, that’s the truth, Raav said, cutting her off. But Savra, I would make the same decision all over again. Without you, not even souls beyond the veil are safe from the Hunger. If we are doomed anyway, I would rather have tried. I’m with the woman I love. For eternity, in fact. How many people can say that?
I blinked. You must resent me, I said.
In an occasional moment of weakness, yes, Lilik admitted. But no more than I resent fate. You didn’t choose your role, and you’re doing your best.
I looked down at Kostan. Was I doing my best? In the hours after Steelhold fell, I remembered sitting at a table in the Graybranch, laughing with him as we swallowed Fishel’s ale. After that, I’d spent many more hours in Kostan’s arms. All that night, it had been as if nothing existed beyond the walls of the Graybranch Inn. I’d been happy, and I hadn’t even cared that fires still burned in Lowtown or that many families were spending the night mourning lost loved ones.
I shook my head. No, I wasn’t doing my best. But that would change. Someday, when we found our way through this—if we found our way through it—I would allow myself those sorts of experiences. Right now, though, the Empire was in grave danger. Before the Hunger had taken him, Parveld had believed I would lead our people through this.
I wouldn’t do that sitting by my lover’s bedside. Others could care for him better than I, and my strengths were needed elsewhere. I’d made little progress advancing my spiritism in the days since Steelhold fell, but something Lilik had said before the evacuation kept returning to me.
Standing, I placed a kiss on Kostan’s brow then tiptoed to the door and stepped into the chill morning air.
Tell me about spirit walking, I said.
***
A rider trotted down Westpass Cut from deeper into the mountains as I clambered up a scree slope behind the garrison. The crisp air carried his voice as he reported to the protectors at the garrison’s front gate.
“Four landslides block the road between here and the next fork.”
The door to the gatehouse banged open as Sirez shoved through it and stalked over. “Can horses cross?”
The man’s mount shied at the noise. He worked the reins until the beast was calm then swung a leg over and dismounted. “Picked my way over the first, but the others I had to cross on foot.”
Sirez sighed and gestured with her chin toward the garrison’s kitchen building. “Get some food and rest. I may need you to ride down to the flats later.”
The man handed off his reins to a groom who led the horse toward the row of stalls along an inside wall.
Turning, I continued up the hill.
You know, I was only speculating when I mentioned spirit walking, Lilik said as I set foot on a flat stone the size of a dinner plate and tested its stability. Fresh rock dust from recent quakes and landslides coated the slopes and clung to the deep green needles of pine trees. I’d do no good for the Empire if I set off a slide and got crushed in the tumble.
But you’ll explain what you meant by it, I said. Another ten paces or so uphill, a low-growing evergreen shrub made a necklace around a flat-topped boulder. Plunging my feet into loose dirt, I crossed the remaining distance. The earth spilled over the tops of my shoes and released the damp scent of melting frost. Lichen crumbled under the soles of my boots as I scrambled onto the boulder. I took a cross-legged seat.
I suppose I will, Lilik said.
Do you want her to end up like Devonii? Raav asked.
What do you think? Of course not. But you saw what Parveld is doing.
Actually, Raav said, I didn’t. No shadowbond, remember? But I believe you, Lilik. I only want you to be sure.
Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not sure, she said.
But I am. I thrust my words between them. No one who grew up working the sluices in Cosmal could claim a coddled upbringing. I wasn’t about to start letting other people protect me now.
Lilik sighed. Fair enough. But here’s the thing, Savra. I can only explain what I know; I never experienced the ability, and frankly I’m glad for that. I was not a cautious young woman, and I doubt it would have gone well for me.
You could start by telling me the dangers, I suggested. That way, you won’t have to worry I’ll do something stupid before you get the chance to warn me not to.
Straight to the point, she said.
All right. Here’s the danger. If you learn how to remove your spirit from your body, there’s a strong chance you’ll go too far. You might get lost without vessels to anchor your return journey. Or you’ll simply lose track of time, stay away too long, and your body will forget you. Even if you find your way back, you won’t be able to rejoin.
And then?
And then you become nothing. A drifting spirit. Without a normal death, you won’t pass beyond the veil. You might hang around for awhile, but eventually, I think you’ll just dissolve.
Then I suppose I won’t care, I said.
No, you won’t. But those you leave behind will. You see, your body won’t die. Not for quite some time. Otherwise, spirit walking wouldn’t be possible because the moment your soul traveled, your heart would stop beating. If Parveld were here, he could… The woman trailed off, her voice cracking.
I picked at a patch of dull green lichen. I wished I could help her feel better about her friend. I still haven’t given up hope that we can purge his madness without killing him.
Lilik responded with a touch of affection. Maybe we can.
After a while, Raav spoke. Lilik mentioned Parveld because we knew a spirit walker once. Devonii was Parveld’s student. It tore him apart when she was lost. Imagine waiting for weeks, desperate for life to return to the body of the person you were supposed to teach and protect. Do what you must for the Empire, but don’t underestimate the grief you could cause by taking unnecessary risks.
I looked down at the garrison where Kostan still slept. I’ll be careful, I said.
We’ll start simple, then, Lilik said, her tone resigned. Easy movement between nearby vessels. Focus on an aura and imagine joining your spirit to theirs.
I closed my eyes and allowed my aura-sight forward. Below, soldiers moved about with determination. Their auras were steely. I reached for the closest, but a shout knocked out my concentration.
“I’m sorry he’s injured, Savra,” Sirez shouted. She stood against the back wall of the fort, a plate in her hands. “But you have to eat.”
She’s right, Lilik said. You need your strength.
I sighed and climbed down from the boulder.
Chapter Thirteen
Parveld
A primitive hut
PARVELD’S HEAD ACHED, and no wonder, considering the vast distances over which he’d splayed the tendrils of his spirit. It was so difficult to encompass his vast new body with such frail, human abilities. Especially while keeping a grip on the fragment of Emperor Kostan’s spark. The weaving had been difficult, and something about it wasn’t quite right. But as contorted as the bond felt, it allowed him to track the leader. Kostan had left Jaliss, fleeing west and then north into the mountains.
For the moment, that suited Parveld’s interests. Without human interference, he didn’t need to put much concentration into furthering his plans. The small band in Jaliss had done its job. Vastly more brethren marched under his direction, but it was almost like breathing to keep them moving. Like the slow beating of his heart.
There was one fragment of his Hunger-self that he focused on intently, however: the flying Riftspawn that swiftly approached his physical location.
Rubbing a hand down his face, the long-lived mage stood from his cot. His knees cracked, as did his toes when he rose up on the balls of his feet. He smirked, amazed that he could still notice such human details. His physical body was nothing but a stitch in the tapestry woven by the Hunger. Yet until his work was finished and he joined—finally and fully—with his larger self, he must remember to nurture this body. He needed to drink. When he swallowed, his tongue rasped against the soft flesh at the back of his throat. On a low stump beside his hut’s door flap, a pitcher of stale water sat beside a crude ceramic cup. He poured a small measure and sucked it down as he stepped outside.
The glare of the midday sun only worsened his headache. Parveld grimaced as he raised a hand to shade his eyes. He squinted, scanning the sky for his approaching brother-self. There, a dark slash skimming the horizon. The Riftspawn sped towards Parveld’s camp, awkward wings beating the air. When it drew near, gusting up on the smell of rotten fruit, the bird-beast cried a greeting.
Parveld raised a hand, beckoning the thing close. Hobbling forward on ill-matched legs, the Spawn made painful progress through the grass. Its head resembled a horse’s, too long and heavy for the spindly neck. A single, thin arm sprouted from its feathered chest. Clutched tight in its broken claws, the beast bore the trophy Parveld had sent his scouts to seek.
Parveld’s lips twisted in impatience. Finally, he grew weary of waiting. He stomped forward and peeled the Bracer of Sight from the beast’s grasp.
The metal was cool under the mage’s hand. He traced the filigrees and curlicues that decorated the relic’s surface. The human scavengers picking over Steelhold’s wreckage would have found it eventually. But once Parveld had brought his small force to the city, forcing Kostan to activate the flawed Heartstone in Jaliss’s defense, the search had been abandoned. Once the humans had fled the field of debris, a swarm of Spawn resembling rodents and insects had flooded the area. With tens of thousands of eyes, the gleam of the relic hadn’t been difficult to find.
The attack itself had been an excellent ploy. Kostan had opened a gate to the inner workings of the Heartstone when he’d used it to manifest the searing warrior. By linking with Kostan’s spark, Parveld had tunneled through Kostan’s psyche where it joined with the Heartstone. And as the man had fallen, convinced by Parveld’s influence that he was too weak to fight, Parveld had driven a spear of the Hunger’s power into the Heartstone’s flaw, shattering its magic.
Three separate loci of magic had sealed the Hunger’s rift. Knots of power tied to the forces of Mind, Body, and Essence. The first, Mind, was now irrevocably broken. The remaining would be more difficult to ruin, but Parveld was confident. After all, he’d made great progress in understanding how to effectively wield his powers. Though the binding he’d worked on Kostan was strange, its effects were quite interesting. Most certainly, Parveld would see his goals realized.
Especially now that he had the Bracer. He who wore it could see the future, and Parveld knew quite well the advantage such sight offered. Sometimes, the foretellings were troubling, showing unexpected defeats or seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Still, such knowledge was incalculably preferable to a blind march into the unknown.
Before him, the Riftspawn that had flown the relic over the vast grasslands sagged to the earth, knees buckling in different directions as its strength gave out—not even Spawn could live forever. With a sigh, Parveld forced his will upon the beast.
Behind his small hut, the First Rift yawned. The chasm had been the first major gorge to open as, years ago, the Breaking had begun to tear at the continent. The view from the rim was stunning, pleasant to his human eyes. But more importantly, the Hunger’s power was strong here. It was a solid position from which to grow his abilities and army.
Also, it provided convenient disposal. As if flicking a finger, Parveld sent the bird hopping toward the rim. When the creature reached the brink, he gave a last nudge, sending the Spawn flying over the drop. He didn’t hear the body land, but the impact loosed a distant clatter of rocks. A small speck in the Hunger’s tapestry dissolved, its energy rippling out and investing other threads with strength.
With a nod, Parveld stalked back to his hut. Fiddling with the Bracer’s buckles, he slid it over his forearm.
Chapter Fourteen
Fishel
Refugee camp, Atal grasslands
FISHEL STALKED THROUGH the center of the refugee camp, shaking his head. He’d had a chance to speak his mind when they’d decided to evacuate Jaliss, and he’d agreed that this had been the best choice. If Savra and Stormshard claimed that the first attack was just the smallest fraction of the horror approaching Jaliss, Fishel had no doubt the city was lost. He just hadn’t expected this to be so darn difficult.
His charges were so vulnerable out here, huddled against the uncaring slopes of the Icethorns with nothing but tattered lean-tos and hastily gathered supplies to defend them from the weather. Worse, they had him, a humble innkeeper who’d spent his life in the Splits, as a leader for their exodus. He shook his head and sighed. Times were terrible when a situation like this was the best of all options.
Today, three people had died. They were buried at the foot of the Icethorns now. Death often came early for Provs in the Atal Empire, but these had been on Fishel’s watch. Already sick and starving, the forced march had been too much. The losses were heavy stones in his gut.
He scanned the vast sprawl of the refugee camp. The sea of tents stretched along the foothills for at least a league. Traveling from one end to the other took more than half an hour on horseback. Even with the help of his lieutenants, the magnitude of the task was ridiculous, and it would only get worse once they were forced to funnel along a narrow mountain road. Many more would surely die before they reached safety. If they reached safety.
At the far western edge of the encampment, a few of the city’s Atal clustered in a sullen mob. Judging by their disheveled appearances, few had slept during the recent nights. Few had any real means of carrying their possessions, and so they’d stumbled from mansions with silk sheets bundled in their arms and prized Maelstrom-relics perched atop. Some had even emerged with gem-encrusted tableware.
Now, after two days spent marching, a trail of silver chalices and gleaming candelabras littered the path the refugees had cut through the grasslands. Someday, perhaps long after Atal civilization had passed from the world, someone would come upon their track and wonder what strange thing had happened here.
As he neared the group, Fishel found that he pitied the unfortunate people. He’d have to search the wagons for better supplies for them. Silk sheets might feel nice on a soft mattress in front of a large hearth, but they did little to pad the hard ground or to keep out the night’s chill. The Atal elite had never been kind to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to scoff. After all, they’d agreed to leave the city when their peers had remained. It had taken trust—and no small amount of clever words from Lyrille—for them to accept his leadership. He would care for them as diligently as he did the Provs.
Fate of the Drowned (The Broken Lands Book 3) Page 10
