* * *
When he woke surrounded by Ele, all Kheled could do was lie still and stunned.
“Huh,” he grunted.
“What a total fuck up, Gaelen.”
Kheled shot upright, but he didn’t care about the man who spoke to him. He searched for and found the never-ending Daevetch landscape, separated from him by a thinning gray line. When he sprang to his feet in order to sprint to the border, Alouin caught his shoulder.
“He’s not there.”
Sucking in a breath, Kheled shrugged Alouin’s hand from him and in a fugue, began to pace, fingers twining in his hair.
“What do I do? What do I do?!”
Unexpectedly, Kheled lost control of his legs and painfully landed on his back, breath knocked from him. Alouin’s twitchy fingers gave him a clue as to how he’d ended on the ground.
“You do nothing, silly man,” the one they called a god replied. “I do everything. Again. I swear, your iteration drains more from me than the sum of countless others. Get your shit together, Gaelen.”
Gaelen…?
“What’s wrong with you?” Kheled snapped. “You should know better than to manipulate me with your strange magic, and my name hasn’t been Gaelen in ages. It’s Kheled.”
Ceasing his annoying habit of playing at the air with his fingers, Alouin coldly stared at him. “Do you want my help or not?” he asked.
I want to stay. I want to be free of your curse, but the world…
And Raimie…
“Please,” Kheled hissed. “Help me.”
The one they called a god nodded, fingers caressing air once more, and he knelt at Kheled’s side. Alouin’s pointer finger approached his forehead but paused midway.
“Can I ask,” he said, a troubled expression crossing his face, “who’s your friend? When he visited, he insisted we’d met, but I’m afraid I lost my temper and pushed him away before he could explain.”
Only one friend had ever made the slightest mention of meeting Alouin.
“Who, Raimie?” Kheled muttered. “What do you want to know about him?”
“Your friend. He’s a… what do you call it in your reality?”
“A primeancer?” Kheled answered.
What else from his reality would cause the one they called a god to show interest?
“Yes, thank you. That. Of which primal force?” Alouin asked.
“…Both,” Kheled answered, now utterly confused.
He didn’t believe in gods, never had, but over the millennia, Alouin had shaken his conviction. Kheled couldn’t fully commit to calling him a god, but Alouin was immensely powerful and could always produce an answer to his many questions. Shouldn’t he know Raimie was a dual primeancer?
“I thought I’d felt both energies within him upon reviewing the visit,” Alouin mused.
He fell silent, and Kheled itched to get going, to be allowed to his feet, to go home.
“When I stabilized the tears following my release, I noticed two fewer in your reality,” Alouin continued. “Your friend’s doing?”
“Over the course of our journey together, Raimie has closed tears, yes.”
Alouin stilled, eyes so wide Kheled thought they might fall from their sockets. “Finally,” he breathed. “Hope.”
Fidgeting, Kheled cleared his throat. “May I please return?”
Whatever spell had frozen Alouin shattered, and he smiled. It was the first time he’d looked himself during this strange encounter.
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Khel!”
He pressed his finger to the Eselan’s brow, and white light blinded Kheled.
* * *
A shaky gasp broke the stillness of Kheled’s old laboratory. Gingerly, he sat up, wincing at his chest’s tugging ache. When he removed his hand from his breastbone, the appendage came away drenched, and he groaned. Over his heart, blood soaked the tunic and his ever-trusty cloak, front and back. At least the sopping liquid hid fabric’s torn rents.
“Oh, thank the whole! I thought the war was lost!” Creation exclaimed beside Kheled.
He jerked from the noise, grunting at the wash of pain which followed the sudden move.
“Creation,” he said once the twinge passed. “Where’ve you been?”
“Busy!” the splinter snapped. “Not busy enough to miss the wrench across the iterations when Arivor stabbed you with Lighteater. Nor to feel you completely cut from the whole. To feel when you died in truth. How are you alive? Your death should have ended this cycle, albeit in the enemy’s favor for once, but ended it nonetheless.”
“Alouin helped,” Kheled groaned, delicately climbing to his feet.
Creation was silent for the length of time it took him to trudge to the door, but then, he snapped before Kheled, shoving a shaking finger in his Eselan’s face.
“You cannot accept Alouin’s help, Erianger,” the splinter whispered, fear widening his eyes.
“Why not?” Kheled asked, pushing through Creation and outside.
Night had fallen, but the glow of a city wrapped in Ele almost fooled Kheled into thinking otherwise. In the dark, light blazed, a glistening beacon which promised comfort and warmth to the weary traveler. It was beautiful.
Kheled shook his reverie, realization dawning that Creation had continued jabbering while the view had distracted him.
“…tip the scales of the war!” the splinter said in a barely contained scream. “You must promise me, Erianger! Do not accept his help!”
Should he ask for a repeat of the explanation? Something of import could have hidden in the jumble Creation had unleashed, but… Honestly, he didn’t care right now. His entire body ached, his chest distinctly felt as if an elephant had stomped on it, and exhaustion wore him like a second skin. He was wrung out and couldn’t be bothered to listen once more, so…
“An easy promise to make. I don’t particularly enjoy accepting his help in the first place,” Kheled muttered.
Creation sagged, hands clinging to his knees. “Thank you.”
Kheled wanly smiled. It truly wasn’t a hard promise to make. “Come on, you. Let’s find Doldimar. I’ve a debt to repay.”
The street his old home butted up against was empty, but it had been abandoned as he'd approached as well. Why was he concerned over finding one of Doldimar’s minions? Somehow, he doubted he need worry about Enforcers or Kiraak after what had happened. He could probably meander through a crowd of them sans comment now that Doldimar thought him dead.
Kheled hummed as he strolled toward the markets, enjoying the imagined look on Doldimar’s face when he shoved a sword through his heart. A blank slate of black hung above his head, the stars drowned out by the city’s light, his city. Maybe in the next cycle, he’d find time to lead his fellow Esela here, guide them in the old ways, show them…
He screeched to a stop, both with his feet and his mind. Kheled had arrived to the marketplace, but where before Kiraak had crowded it, now it was deserted. Fearful of what he’d discover, he cast his senses in all directions, as far as they would go, searching for, questing for, any sign of Daevetch. He came up empty.
“Where are they?” He rounded on Creation as his stomach plummeted. “How long have I been out?
“If they’re not here, you know where they’ve gone,” the splinter replied, “and you weren’t dead long. Maybe half a day? I may have lost track when panic set in.”
“Damn it!”
The invitation here, the presentation of his father, it had all been a ruse. To kill him, yes, but more importantly, to get him out of the way. Away from the city he’d, in part, protected by his very presence for the last year and a half. Uduli.
Gods, Raimie and Ren! He’d left without saying a word. Auden had enjoyed peace for four years, long enough to be lulled into the belief that harmony might be permanent. They’d never see the attack coming!
“I have to get back!” he moaned, the task’s futility already slashing at his heart.
“You’ll never make it
in time,” Creation echoed his Eselan’s budding despair.
Kheled ignored the splinter-easy enough after years of practice-and fled a city of memories, careening into the black night, a bullet of light aimed for Auden’s heart.
Chapter Thirty-One
18th of Seventh, 3484
My fears have proven true. The peace is over. My son is dead.
“We’re going to die here, aren’t we?”
The stone which intruded on all sides muffled Raimie’s question, his words sounding through a thick cloth filter until they bumped into one another in his head. Fortunately, Nylion seemed to hear them without a problem.
“Probably,” his other half admitted.
Nylion’s voice came from outside their coffin, a small pinpoint onto which Raimie latched, assisting his cling to sanity. If he pretended his other half was truly out there instead of trapped in here with him, his lungs would continue to breathe in an even rhythm rather than devolving into uncontrolled gasps.
Alouin, Nyl, tell me what you really think, Raimie hissed, although his mouth pleasantly curled at Nylion’s sour tone.
How did his other half always know how to cheer him up?
“Would you rather I lie to you? Because I am not sure I can. I have never lied to you before.”
Except when you failed to mention our bitch mother spent a large chunk of our childhood beating us, Raimie growled, the blossoming of something resembling a good mood ripped out by the roots.
Nylion stayed quiet while Raimie simmered, in tune to their boiling blood, the powder keg waiting for a single spark.
“I took what I thought would be the healthiest option, mentally, for us,” he said when heat faded. “I am sorry.”
It was Raimie’s turn not to reply. The ache in his neck had weakened, so he stretched and found his peephole from their coffin, eager to absorb the view of something other than dimly lit stone mere inches from his nose.
“I know, Nyl,” he whispered.
Followed by I don’t blame you and How could you in his head. Thankfully, Nylion didn’t comment on the thoughts Raimie knew he’d heard. Just like he knew he wasn’t genuinely angry at Nylion. Not really. Maybe a little irritated his other half had shouldered the burden of their mother’s abuse alone, without asking for help, but the white-hot, bitter RAGE which kept him from sleep most nights, which required a self-medicated dose of alcohol to quell, was directed at himself.
Years he’d gone, both oblivious to Nylion’s presence but also to what his other half had shielded him from. His debt to Nylion was a drained gulf. It could never be filled, never repaid. He could try to do so for the rest of his life, and his efforts would never be enough unless…
No, Raimie could never bring himself to surrender control. Never be the one condemned to perpetually watch their life played out through their eyes, and his selfishness was why self-loathing was a constant companion.
“Let us try again,” Nylion said.
Raimie jumped, so consumed by drowning in misery was he. Like he’d said before, how did Nylion always know how to cheer him up? Right when he began to crumble, there his other half was, throwing a lifeline.
He cleared his throat, almost coughing. “Bright? Dim? You two listening?” Raimie called. “You saved me in Qena. Think you can do it again?”
Silence answered him, and as usual, when he sought his sources, he found nothing.
Do you think Doldimar destroyed them? he asked Nylion, a thrill of fear zipping under his skin.
“The bastard only had Lighteater with him, not Shadowsteal, so only Order was in danger,” his other half replied. “As for what could keep Chaos, I have no idea.”
He’s seemed weaker lately, Raimie mused. Have you noticed the cracks in his guise? The ones he tries so hard to hide from us?
“His attempts are pathetic. Do you think his weakening may have something to do with his lack of response?”
We’re beside a tear, a glimpse into the primal forces. What do you think a weakened Daevetch splinter would do when confronted with his ‘whole’? Still doesn’t explain why I can’t FEEL him, though.
The speculation was much appreciated. Anything to distract from the certainty of stone’s weight above and around him; the inability to move due to their coffin’s tight confines; the loss of his Daevetch and Ele sources; the knowledge that while he lay here, trapped, his enemy marched on his home. The certainty it and everyone he loved would be destroyed.
“Raimie, focus,” Nylion said.
Hyperventilation slowed, and panic loosened its claws in him. His stomach rumbled.
“How long have we been here?” Raimie wondered aloud.
It must have at least been through the night. Grit scraped his eyes when he closed them, and his mind wandered too freely. An empty void had taken the place of his stomach, every passing hour dragging more of his body into its grip, and his throat was a desert, lips chapped and tongue swollen. He sincerely regretted the brandy skins he’d consumed to steady his nerves before disembarking onto the isle. Better not to think of the dried liquid which stiffened the clothing around his hips.
“One day, thirteen hours, forty-two minutes,” Nylion told him.
Where on earth did you pull that from?! Raimie gasped.
“Excellent internal clock?” Nylion laughed. “I guess, heart of my heart. I know it has been at least a day.”
Which meant, depending on the location of Doldimar’s hiding place, Uduli could already be under attack.
Raimie flinched from the thought, focusing on the tear instead. His only realistic way from this death trap would be with primeancy use, and even then, escape would prove difficult. Shifting collapsed stone with Daevetch. Employing Ele to stop another cascade. Holding perfectly still sans an outside view. The task seemed more than a little daunting, but it was possible. If he could reach either source. Which the tear was preventing. Dear gods, he hoped that was the case!
Could he possibly draw Ele or Daevetch directly from the tear? Raimie strained for a point of rigid calm or one of angry chaos beyond the black slit, but all he encountered was dread and panic, the typical reaction to something which was so obviously unnatural, so wrong.
He gave up on his attempts but didn’t relent in his glare. The tear was inanimate, a break in reality. It couldn’t respond to him, but he couldn’t help himself.
“If you must block my splinters, the least you could do is give me another way out of this mess!” he shouted.
As if in response, the middle of the waist-high tear bulged toward Raimie, and for an instant he was outside Qena, attempting to bring their rip in reality under control. He forgot stone ensnared him, forgot he couldn’t move, and violently jerked away. Skin ripped from his back and arms, and he stifled a scream while the bulge reached further… further…
A woman stepped from it, black shucking away from her before returning to its unnaturally natural formation. Shaking herself, the woman curiously took in her surroundings.
“Yup, this might be it, but don’t get your hopes up,” she muttered. “Remember Vathaylia.”
As she stepped closer, the tear’s halo of wispy light allowed Raimie a better look at her. Dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes, petite, she looked to be an ordinary human, the appearance only slightly marred by her clothing and the bulging, leather satchel thrown over her shoulder.
A thin, silver chain encircled her neck, accenting the soft lines of her jaw and exposed collar bones. Her earth-toned tunic was common enough, if a little outdated. Its short sleeves made loose funnels around her arms, and strings tugged the neckline closed, a style from a century ago. Her dark brown, short pants followed the same lines as the tunic’s sleeves, cutting off above the knee.
“I suppose if this is home, I found the worst possible door back,” she sighed. “I don’t see a crack in this cave’s walls. Do you?”
To whom did she speak? Carefully, Raimie scooted as close to stone as he could and scanned her one more time. Ordinary female, outdated clot
hing, barefoot, and a white ball with brightly glowing, blue stripes which rolled alongside her. In his surprise, Raimie must have made a noise because the woman’s head snapped in his direction.
“Hello?” she asked, one hand creeping toward her satchel’s flap. “Is someone there?”
Oh, gods! What did he do?! She was coming his way, and what was she? Would she hurt him?!
“The only way to find out is to talk to her, Raimie!” Nylion snapped. “Maybe she can help us!”
Oh.
She backed toward the tear now, black reaching for her, and Raimie cursed himself for a panic which had almost ripped possible rescue away.
“Wait!” he called. “Please, don’t go! Can you help me?”
She stopped, the tear close enough to touch, with her head cocked.
“I’ve been trapped by a cave in,” Raimie explained, leaving off what had caused it, “and I can’t move. Please, I don’t know who you are or how you came through the tear, but I’m desperate. Will you help?”
The woman had tensed, hands balling into fists, and words tumbled from her lips. “Don’t intervene, don’t intervene, don’t intervene…”
“Please!” Raimie begged, desperation pricking his eyes with tears. “My kingdom! My wife! My child! They’ll die if I don’t soon return! Do you require a price from me? Name it! I’ll pay whatever you want! Just, please! Help me!”
The woman hissed a long sigh, tension fleeing from her with it. “I’m going to regret this,” she muttered as she strode toward him.
“Thank you,” Raimie sobbed.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “I haven’t freed you. Ailig. Light, please.”
The ball at her feet shone with white light, and the woman absently surveyed the rock piled atop him. Her hand rose to the chain around her neck, pulling it away. Once freed, a jumble of unintelligible syllables tumbled from her lips in a nonsense pattern.
“What?” Raimie asked. “I don’t understand you.”
Why couldn’t he comprehend the gibberish? Was it a type of code? He knew Oswin occasionally deciphered the Hand’s reports before they appeared on his desk, but he’d never heard of anyone from any nation speaking code. She fastened the chain around her neck with a sigh.
A King's Caution (The Eternal War Book 2) Page 65
