Tyrus shook his head. “He might have said that, but the shedim commanded us to kill the Reborns.”
“Azmon was furious when Lilith betrayed him.”
Both men dwelled on the old memories, and Tyrus saw that many of the Roshan were as haunted as he was. He realized they must all be like him, remembering the good days before things slipped out from under them.
Tyrus asked, “What happened to Azmon?”
“Mulciber punished him. He is cursed now and stronger than ever.”
“Demon spawn?”
“I believe so. He is deformed, like the old stories say. And his temper has grown worse.”
“Did he really cull all of our people?”
“This city is a wretched place. The siege was filled with long nights, and you could hear people scream while the beasts hunted them.” Elmar drifted off in thought and then asked, “There is no chance Marah will send us home?”
“I don’t know what her plans are.”
“Then what will we do?”
“I’ll do what I can to get you to Sornum.”
“Thank you, Lord Marshal.”
“Please, don’t call me that.”
V
Tyrus escorted Silas to Marah’s apartments inside King’s Rest. The priest wished to discuss the problems in the Deep Ward, and he offered to help Marah with the burdens of her runes. Tyrus was reluctant to trust the dwarves, but they had fought for her. They had sacrificed their comrades for her, and she needed a mentor who understood sorcery, someone like Dura or Nemuel. Unsure if he had made a mistake, Tyrus knocked on the door.
Marah said, “Come in, Tyrus.”
Silas looked up at him. “Does she do that often?”
“You get used to it.”
They entered and found Marah resting on her heels, meditating. Tyrus winced at the bags under her eyes and the weary weight of her eyelids. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.
Marah said, “I want to go back to the woods.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety. This place is easier to guard.”
“I can protect myself.”
Tyrus was reluctant to argue in front of Silas. They had lost several of her guards on the last trip, and he didn’t want to waste any more men. Breonna would continue to plot against them, and if not her, one of their many enemies would. He thought it crass to mention such things in front of Silas, who had also lost wardens protecting Marah.
Silas asked, “Why do you wish to leave the city?”
“The woods are quiet.”
“You mean… sacred? Free of shadows?”
“Is that what you call them?”
“Some call them echoes. Some call them ghosts. They are more common in the Deep, beyond the Ward. The Black Gate seems to pull troubled spirits into the Underworld.” Silas sat before her, imitating the way she rested her weight on her heels and placed her hands in her lap. “The White Gate, though, is much more peaceful. I felt it too when I was in Paltiel. There are few troubled spirits so close to the Seven Heavens.”
“I don’t think it is the White Gate.”
Silas waited for an explanation.
Marah seemed to appreciate his patience. “The Ashen Elves keep people away from the woods. There aren’t as many dead people.”
“Ah, I can see why you would think so, but if you knew the history of the Ashen Elves—if you knew how they became gray—you would not think so. During the Age of Chaos, Telessar was much like this place. The walls were broken. The city was besieged from below, and untold nephalem died fighting for the mountain.”
“So they are like Dura? They don’t haunt this world?”
“Perhaps they did, once, and have since moved on. It was a long time ago, before Jethlah ended the Age of Chaos.” Silas paused to consider Marah. “Are you sleeping well?”
She shook her head. “There’s too much noise.”
“Did Dura show you the runes to silence the shadows?” Silas pulled a small travel kit of brushes and inks from his robes.
Tyrus stepped forward. He stopped short of grabbing the inks, which would be an overreaction, but he didn’t want anyone painting Marah.
Silas paused. “The runes are a simple ward. I can teach her how to quiet the shadows.”
Tyrus asked, “You would paint her?”
“For the runes to work, they must be painted on her face.”
“Paint the runes on paper first. Then on me. You’ll paint me before you paint her.”
“My people revere the Reborn. I would never hurt one of the blessed.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
They sent for the paper, then Silas explained the wards as he painted them on both the paper and Tyrus. The cold ink felt slick on Tyrus’s cheeks, and he waited for a change. Nothing happened.
Tyrus told Marah, “I don’t feel anything.”
“It’s a ward,” Silas said. “You wouldn’t notice a change unless you heard the shadows.”
Marah verified that the paper and his face matched. So he watched as Silas painted the ward on Marah too. Tyrus studied each brush stroke against the paper in his hands to ensure nothing was changed. He knew his paranoia would not protect Marah very much. If Silas were clever enough, he could still trick Tyrus. A sorcerer would have the knowledge to paint runes that did nothing to Tyrus but somehow crippled Marah. Still, he wanted to do what he could to protect her.
Marah understood the runes at once. Her intuition took over, and she explored them in her mind. Silas opened her eyes to new things, and she compared them to other runes she already knew. She also admired his brushwork. He had a practiced hand that made deft strokes on both paper and skin.
A ghost whispered, Dura used that on you when you were a toddler.
Marah asked, Why didn’t she teach me the ward?
Because you need us.
Silas painted her face, and she noticed a change immediately. The din of Shinar dulled. The silence wasn’t as peaceful as the woods—a sadness clung to the city that she didn’t understand—but the teeming dead were muted. She was alone in her own mind again, able to think for herself.
She glanced around the room, feeling lighter.
Silas asked, “A success?”
Marah nodded. “Thank you.”
Tyrus asked, “What if she were etched with these runes?”
Silas asked, “Who would do such a thing?”
“She has many enemies.”
“It would be a crime to etch someone against their will, but such a thing would silence the shadows forever.” Silas put away his inks and gave Tyrus a troubling look. He shook his head and told Marah, “Any time you want a break, summon me and I’ll reapply the ward.”
“There’s no need.” Marah reached for the source and used her powers to take the brush from Silas’s hand. She guided the brush and redrew the ward on the paper sitting on the floor. “I can do it myself.”
Silas scratched his beard.
Tyrus asked, “What is wrong?”
“I’ve never seen someone do that before. All of it. Drawing runes with runes, and the calligraphy is perfect.” Silas sighed. “And she learned it after seeing it once. None of the priests would believe me.”
Marah heard every word they said without concentrating on them or trying to block out any interference. At first, she enjoyed the quiet, but then she missed the little clues and hints from the dead. They helped her understand people, and without them, she didn’t know what to think.
No one was watching the city for her, either. She had no idea what waited outside her chamber door. Men could be storming King’s Rest, and she wouldn’t know until she heard the fighting. A clammy panic spread down her back.
Silas asked, “What is wrong?”
“I need to take this off.” Marah rubbed at her cheek. “I can’t hear anything.”
“But you were
alone in the woods…”
“There weren’t any killers in the woods. I need the shadows.”
“Such things are forbidden for good reason. You endanger yourself by playing with the shadows. They hide many secrets.”
Marah said, “Take it off.”
Tyrus said, “Do it.”
Silas relented and used a vial of sharp-smelling spirits to dab away at the runes on Marah’s face. The vapors stung her eyes and burned her cheeks.
“There are meditations as well,” Silas said. “Perhaps you need time to adjust to the quiet. Change is difficult for everyone.”
A ghost whispered, Beware this one. He grovels so you’ll fight for him.
Marah said, “You want me to fight for you.”
“I want you to do what all prophets have done—shield us from the sarbor. Let the angels and demons fight their own wars.”
“But I need Dura. Without her, I’ll die.”
“You have many people who will protect you.”
“But she knows what to do.” Marah’s eyes watered. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be a ghost.”
“One cannot fear what must be.” Silas offered a small smile, commiserating with her. “Death is a natural part of life. Everything that begins must also end. Asking for more is like arguing with the sunset. You must let go of the things you cannot control.”
“But I can control death.”
The dwarf took one of her hands and used a massive finger to trace the lines of her palm. “Small hands to carry such power, but it changes nothing. You give people the gift of more time—you prolong the inevitable. They will still die, just as angels and demons die. You prolong the illusion of time, nothing more.”
Tyrus stood nearby, watching the exchange. He said nothing, but he watched every move the dwarf made. Marah appreciated his presence—the way he filled a room. She sensed the violence within him, his readiness if anything went wrong. She could let her guard down with Tyrus at her side.
“What… illusion?”
“Everyone believes they will live long enough to have gray hair. That is an illusion, a pleasant little lie that we tell ourselves. The truth is that we might die anytime, and this moment, this, right here, is all we have. The highest king might have days left, and the lowest slave might have decades left, but no one knows for sure. If we accept that simple truth, we learn to cherish what we have. And we find peace in the passing.”
“I miss Dura. I want to be with her.”
“The first time you pierce the illusion is hard. Death teaches many things. You think Dura was taken from you, for you assumed she would always be there. Life doesn’t work that way. Your suffering comes from wanting what you can’t have. Let go of the things you cannot control.”
“I can’t stop wanting her.”
“You haven’t tried. Focus less on what was taken away and more on the many gifts she left behind. Think of the things she taught you. Be grateful for the time you shared, and know that she is always with you. You honor her by helping us. You brought a piece of Dura to us in our time of need. Her light shines through you.”
A ghost whispered, Dwarves are such pompous creatures. He cannot tell you how to grieve. He never knew Dura.
Marah knew the emptiness would always haunt her.
“Gratitude requires practice,” Silas said. “It is a daily meditation, and even I, after decades of practice, have dark days when I question everything. The trick is to recognize such selfish thoughts and to focus on serving others. Real joy comes from helping others. Spend as much time dwelling on Dura’s gifts as you have spent mourning her passing, and the sadness will fade.”
Be careful. He means he wants you to serve him.
Marah said, “The emptiness will always be here.”
“It will fade in time.”
Marah nodded because she was tired of the lectures. She wasn’t like normal people though, and she knew she could bring Dura back to the mortal world. At the very least, she could find a way to talk to her. Marah felt no need to honor a memory when she could spend time with her grandmother again.
Tyrus led Silas away from Marah’s chambers. He wasn’t sure if bringing the dwarf to Marah had made things better or worse. She had a ward that she didn’t want to use, and Silas had used the opportunity to lobby for his people. Tyrus told himself that at least Marah had more options. If she wanted to ward away the ghosts, she could.
Tyrus said, “Thank you for helping her.”
“She plays with dangerous things and doesn’t seem to know it. Powerful as she is, she still needs a teacher. Runes aren’t the problem. Discipline, maturity… That is what she struggles with.”
Tyrus considered that as they walked down the hallway to the quarters they had arranged for the dwarves. He agreed with Silas, but that didn’t make it easier to recruit tutors for Marah.
He asked, “What about the elves?”
“Studying with them is a tricky task. They are perfectionists who spend decades mastering things one step at a time. Oh, they’ll answer many of her questions, but she’ll be an old woman before they say her apprenticeship is over.” Silas stopped walking. “My time in Shinar draws to an end.”
“Where will you go next?”
“Back to Telessar. Tell Marah that I need an answer soon. The old accords must be honored. If we lose the Deep Ward, we will lose all the surface nations. The speed of it will shock you. When the tribes tunnel into a city, it is often too late. You must listen to the rocks, hear them coming, if you are to have any hope of surviving the assault.”
“They tunnel into your cities?”
“Warrens are difficult to defend.”
“I will speak to Marah.”
Silas smirked. “And counsel her against sending warriors.”
Tyrus smiled a little. “Our enemies are everywhere, even in Shinar, and we are outnumbered.”
“Then you understand.” Silas returned the smile. “That is how my people survive each day—surrounded, outnumbered. We refuse to surrender against impossible odds.”
Tyrus motioned for them to continue walking. “All of the tribes united against the Ward?”
“United in fear of the shedim legions. That is the only thing that could drive them against us.”
Tyrus imagined the armies of the Nine Hells marching through the Black Gate. “Will the seraphim defend the Ward?”
“Only if the shedim invade. They won’t risk destroying the Ward to fight off trolls.”
“Destroying it…?”
“When angels and demons fight, mortals die, cities burn, and kingdoms fall.”
VI
Lahar adjusted to his room in King’s Rest. His family had once lived on the upper floors, but the Norsil were using the old apartments to store supplies. He agreed with Marah that Azmon had fouled them. The room he shared with four of the Shinari Knights had once belonged to one of his father’s many clerks. He was in charge of importing animals for the games in the coliseum among other feasts and entertainments. When Shinar had been the Jewel of the West, they had wasted all sorts of gold on foolish things.
He was still recovering from his battle on the plains, his runes tormenting him as they stitched together his shoulder. Part of him wanted Marah to make the wound go away, but he shuddered at the way she’d hurt him. They said healing hurt worse, but that was a gross understatement.
He passed the time leaning against a window in the room. The sun warmed his skin, which he would have enjoyed if he wasn’t obsessed with remembering the clerk’s name. Lahar could picture his oiled black hair and brown eyes, but the name escaped him. His time in Ironwall had also opened his eyes to how wasteful his family had been. An office for a master clerk was big enough to house cots and shelves for five men.
Once more, he brooded over missteps that cost his people the war. He wished he had died with the rest of the Shinari. Fate had taken away
everyone he had grown up with, leaving him to watch barbarians fight over his home.
Larz Kedar knocked as he entered the room. “Did you bring back news from Telessar?”
“We found dwarves in Paltiel. They say the Deep Ward is failing.”
Larz was surprised, and Lahar told him what he knew, which was little. They spoke of the battle on the plains and the tensions with the Norsil; however, Larz fixated on the dwarves. He wanted to know if Marah had promised aid.
Lahar said, “I’ve told you all I know.”
“Azmon is going to come back. We should chase him while he is weak.”
“We are also weak.”
“He is alone with a handful of sorcerers. We could send a small group to hunt them on Sornum—finish the bone lords once and for all. Diverting resources to the Norsil or the Deep Ward is foolish. Our enemy is running away, and we can finally end the war.”
“The Norsil think the same thing about us.” From his window, Lahar watched the thanes, who multiplied by the day. “They see us broken and weak and ripe for the plunder. We’ve all bled too much, fighting the Roshan. If this lot marched on Ironwall, I don’t know if King Samos could fend them off.”
Larz harrumphed. “If Marah turned on them, they would be running back to the wastelands.”
“She likes them.”
“We must convince her to abandon them. Azmon is the true enemy. The dead cannot be allowed to outnumber the living. We will reach a tipping point, and there will be no stopping them.”
“It seems like the real threat is below us.”
“Dwarves…” Larz scrubbed his face with both hands. “I could have ended a war, but I have dwarves to deal with. And what are you doing about this?”
“I’m waiting for my shoulder to heal.”
“We cannot let a child make these decisions.”
“Do you want her to hold a grudge against the Red Tower? Look at the army she is building. Look at what she did to Shinar’s walls. In a few years, she can claim whatever title she wants, and people will flock to her banners.”
Dance of Battle: A Dark Fantasy (Shedim Rebellion Book 4) Page 21
