As the Sharders severed limbs and hacked the monster to bits, the injuries echoed through my body. I ached for the tormented thing but held firm. In the last moment before it toppled, cut to pieces, a single voice found the link between us and spoke across our connection.
Release me, it cried.
Instantly, I knew it spoke not of my spear of command, but rather the corruption that twisted it into a monstrous manifestation of evil. But I could do nothing. My strength was spent.
Like a glass thread struck by a hammer, my aura spear shattered. My will whipped back into my mind, slapping the inside of my skull.
The hard stones of the balcony floor cracked against my elbow and head as I fell into blackness.
Chapter Ten
Havialo
Approaching the geognosts' monastery, Icethorn Mountains
HAVIALO’S BONES ACHED. His feet shuffled along the trail, but sometimes he looked down and wondered to whom they belonged. His broken arm was a limp thing owned by someone else. He lived outside of himself with nothing but his pain to tether his awareness to the body trudging on.
Distantly, he knew what was happening. When he’d released the fault and stilled the avalanche, it had drained his well of gnosty. Ordinarily, earth mages guarded their inner fonts against depletion because they wished to be prepared for the unexpected. A flash flood. A lightning strike. A rock slide loosed upon a little-used trail. Geognosts had nothing to fear from nature’s disasters as long as they had inner power ready to channel.
But Havialo had drained his well at the worst moment. He’d lost his rucksack during his fall, and with it, his food and spare clothing. The snow that had packed the seams of his clothing, spilled down his collar, and crusted his hair had melted and soaked his traveling garments. Breezes that might have been refreshing now cut through his sodden clothing and chilled his core.
Warmth required energy, but so did the process that refilled his inner well. He’d been weary even before the avalanche, having begun the day’s trek before dawn and having skipped meals in his eagerness to reach the monastery’s valley. Now his food was gone.
Havialo’s magic had been born into him. He’d first realized his power when he was very young. He’d been exploring a steep stream bed near Jaliss, throwing sticks for a stray dog that often followed him during the day, when a mountain goat had kicked a heavy stone from the slope above. In the heartbeat before the rock had slammed the dog’s skull, a fire had lit deep in Havialo’s chest. At the same time, he’d felt the energy of the falling stone, and with it, the potential in all the rocks and soil clinging to the slope above him. It had been as easy as swatting a fly. He’d gathered the fire from his core, used it to snare the stone’s energy, and hurled the rock to the side. The dog had bounded on, oblivious.
Geognosty was an inextricable part of him. He couldn’t stop his inner font from filling. And with no bodily reserves and no food to replenish them, his magic was sucking the life from his own body to regenerate his power.
His only hope was reaching the monastery before his strength gave out. Stumbling on, he tried to focus on the trail, placing his feet upon the smoothest sections to conserve energy wherever possible.
He shivered as the sun skimmed the high minarets on the rocky summits to the west. The ache in his bones deepened.
At least he couldn’t feel the corruption anymore. Just the thought made his mind shudder and shy away. The foulness he’d sensed as his power had faded had been abhorrent. He hoped that it had been a quick surge like the tendrils of storm that whipped out from the Maelstrom to menace the coasts. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case. He’d done something wrong, and his best hope was that the repercussions wouldn’t touch him.
A rasping sound brought Havialo’s head up. Beside the trail ahead, a man sat crouched on a boulder, his posture unconsciously mimicking the humps and lines of the large stone beneath him. As he shifted position, assuming a different aspect of the same stone, his satchel rubbed against granite and repeated the rasping noise.
Distantly, Havialo recognized him as a geognost sentry assigned to watch the approach to the monastery.
Despite his exhaustion, a pang of jealousy twisted Havialo’s chest at the ease with which the other earth mage found harmony in his surroundings. During his early years at the monastery, Havialo had overheard plenty of remarks about his deficiency in that regard, but no one had dared taunt him openly, not with his extraordinary raw power. If he hadn’t been so fatigued now, he might have wondered why he let the old wound bother him. But the best he could manage was letting the emotion wash away on a tide of relief.
The other man would help him to the monastery. He wouldn’t die within an hour or two of safety.
As the other mage hopped from the stone, a mid-sized flake cleaved from one side of the boulder. The mage harnessed the released energy and mounded up a cushion of soil to soften his landing. His feet sank to the ankles on the trail.
As Havialo crumpled, his exhaustion abruptly too much to bear, he curled his lip in disgust at the squandered power. Another useless geognost, content to perch on boulders and align himself with the energy of the natural world. It was no wonder the Empire had supported the geognosts’ exile in this hidden valley.
But Havialo would convince them of the folly of pacifism. The earth mages would soon own Atal.
***
The morning sun spilled onto the balcony where Havialo had been given a bed—if it could be called that. The sleeping ledge had been molded and smoothed from raw stone and wasn’t padded in the least. He groaned as he sat, pressing a fist to his forehead. His arm had been splinted, but it still ached, no doubt worsened by the terrible accommodations.
He sighed. Only earth mages would hew bedchambers from bare granite and leave them open to the frigid mountain air. Open to the air, but not victim to it, at least. Havialo recalled quite well his apprenticeship spent diverting energy from the breezes and the storm clouds so that the monastery structures lay steeped in tranquil stillness. As for warmth, that had been the work of other apprentices. Deep beneath the earth, hot water welled from inky reservoirs. While Havialo had taken shifts turning the wind away from the bedchambers of the elder mages, other apprentices had called warmth from the hot blood of the earth and pushed it into the rooms.
He snorted. More wasted power. He’d accepted it in his youth, thinking the masters must have good reasons for the tasks. Now it just seemed ridiculous.
But at least he was warm, thanks no doubt to a cadre of gullible apprentices somewhere on the grounds.
Wincing at the sharp pain when he shifted his arm, he stood and twisted his spine until it cracked. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes. He didn’t remember arriving at the monastery. The memories he did have were scattered. A half-moon rising while the other earth mage carried him. Voices raised in confusion, the rays of the moon bending unnaturally to flood an indoor chamber while someone inspected Havialo’s face. And then the hard stone ledge beneath his body. Oblivion until the sun had pressed against his eyelids.
Havialo shuffled to the balcony exit, a rounded archway draped at the edges by fresh-smelling moss. There was little point in delaying; he’d already rehearsed his speech to the master-level mages. They would be easy to convince, he imagined. Deep in their souls, everyone desired power. Most just avoided it, disguising their fear as altruism. Havialo only needed to show the masters how easy it would be to seize the throne.
Of course, Havialo could take power alone. But this would be easier. And besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have a few kindred spirits with whom he could enjoy his dominion? He snorted at the thought, amused with his change of heart. He had gotten soft over the years, it was true. His brethren were here. Among them, he would find the community he’d hoped for in Stormshard. Once they’d claimed Steelhold, he might even retire here and leave the administration of the realm to others.
Of course, his appeal to the masters’ latent desire for power mi
ght fail. After so many years denying their need for it, the masters might have fooled themselves into contentedness with their isolation and impotence. Havialo had plans for that, too. He could tell countless stories about the evil of the Empire, some concocted, but many far too real. The masters and their followers would come around eventually. Havialo did not doubt that. The closest thing he had to kin, he knew them like he knew himself.
A trickle of water flowed around the edges of the doorway, feeding the moss and collecting in dishes at the base of the wall where it was channeled away to rejoin the mountain streams. Idly he wondered which building this was. He’d been living at the monastery when one of the structures had been sculpted from the landscape. Working together in the heart of a storm, seven high-ranking geognosts had raised the bones of the building, sketching inner chambers and balconies with pillars and beams of molded granite. Later, the remaining geognosts filled in the walls with quarried blocks, cut sod by hand and laid it over the roofline. None were allowed magic to aid the final construction for fear the inexperienced mages would throw the completed structure out of harmony. Like all the buildings on the grounds, from a distance, a traveler wouldn’t even know it was there. The lines of the walls and roof blended almost seamlessly with the tundra and tumbled boulders.
He laid a hand on one of the square-cut stone blocks. They hadn’t respected his power then. Hadn’t trusted him with a task as simple as forming stone within a frame. But things had changed for him now. Once he completed his plans, Havialo’s abilities would outstrip even the most aged master of geognosty.
When he stepped into the building’s central chamber, a roughly-circular room with water pooling in the middle and furniture sculpted from living tree roots around the edges, a young apprentice leaped to her feet.
“I’m to take you to the masters,” she said.
Havialo’s brows raised in surprise. He’d expected to argue his way past half a dozen lower-ranking mages before gaining the masters’ audience. The masters were known for such antics, pretending at importance when no more than three dozen geognosts lived at the monastery.
“I am pleased to follow you,” he returned. This was going quite well.
***
The three faces who greeted him might have been carved from stone. A woman and two men sat easily upon chairs that rose from the floor like stalagmites. But if their posture showed comfort, their eyes were anything but welcoming. Havialo swallowed, feeling like the adolescent boy who had so desperately yearned for the approval of his masters. He cursed himself. His response had to be rooted in his fatigue after yesterday’s ordeal. He wasn’t weak. Already, his abilities likely eclipsed theirs. And he’d soon be twice the mage these masters were.
He strode a few more paces into the chamber as the door—a real door of hewn-wood planks—shut behind him with a thump. Along the walls, candles hissed and spit when drops of water fell from the recesses of the ceiling. High overhead, the roofline of the chamber was a reverse imprint of an Icethorn peak, all spires and crenellations.
The masters said nothing in greeting.
“I appreciate your desire to welcome me,” Havialo said, standing with feet planted shoulder-width and hands clasped behind his back. A confident pose. “And there is much I wish to discuss with you. Grave matters which may be turned to tremendous opportunities.”
“Speak again without invitation, and you will be carried high within a wind spout, dropped over the northern ice sheet, and have your name expunged from our ranks.” The woman, a mage at least ten years his senior, stood from her chair. Though she moved with the stiffness of age, anger thrummed through her body.
“I’m sorry?” Havialo said in shock before clamping his lips shut. His well of gnosty had only regenerated enough to power the most basic energy manipulation. Even if he might defeat this woman in a contest of magic when strong, he stood no chance now.
She stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “I’ll let that pass as a simple mistake. Further comments will seal your fate. Now, why did you break the fault?”
Havialo’s surprise over her reaction was quickly replaced with affront. His cheeks were hot, his eyes burning with anger. That was why they’d summoned him so quickly? In the back of his mind, the recollection of the gushing foulness echoed, but he pushed it away.
“Answer the question,” one of the men said as he stood. He was taller than Havialo by more than a head, a fact that Havialo tried to ignore.
“I was caught in an avalanche. The energy was too chaotic. I released the fault as a last attempt to gather the force needed to save my own life.” Havialo gritted his teeth, hating that he had to explain himself like an apprentice caught diverting water just to watch it pool in the wrong place.
“You should have sacrificed yourself,” the man said. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re entirely ignorant as to the reasons. I remember you. You began your apprenticeship a couple of years after me. Ample talent, but little sensitivity for the natural shape of power.”
Havialo caught a retort before it burst from his mouth. Jaw clenched over the many insults and defenses he wished to throw at the man, he simply stood. Somewhere, a tiny rational part of his mind still hoped to convince these people to join with him against the Empire. His pride was nothing compared to achieving vengeance for his daughter.
“Done is done,” the final master said, remaining in his chair. “If we brought him here simply to castigate him, what does that say about us? We’ve received our answer. Let’s move forward with the consequences.”
Looking closely, Havialo recognized him. It had been more than four decades, but the face beneath the mass of wrinkles was that of Falewill, the youngest geognost ever to earn the master rank. Havialo would have sworn he’d be dead by now, but apparently, his choice to sit around and mold himself to nature’s true form had granted him longevity if nothing else.
The woman’s nostrils flared. “As you say,” she muttered before gesturing Havialo toward an open spot of floor in the center of the ring of chairs. Inhaling, Havialo stepped to the spot. As he did, he felt a strange upwelling of power, the fire in his chest immediately flaring.
“A gift to one who once trained beneath our roof,” the woman said. “While we can no longer welcome you here, we wish you the best in your journey forward.” As she spoke, she cast a look at Falewill as if to ask whether her words were sufficient.
Momentarily stunned by the sudden flood of gnosty into his font, Havialo cleared his throat. “You wish me to leave so soon?” he said. “May I speak first?”
The masters shared a conferring look. “Before you waste your breath, allow me to make a guess,” Falewill said. “Like most wayward earth mages who have left our sanctuary, you’ve realized that the outside world is reluctant to accept our kind. Or you wish to continue your training. Or you raised the ire of the Empire. Ordinarily, any of those reasons would be sufficient to earn you an eager reunion. But you don’t seem to understand what you’ve done.”
“When I released the fault, you mean?” Havialo said.
“Are you so numbed to natural forces that you can’t feel the rot?” the woman asked, incredulous.
Havialo took a deep breath. “Of course I feel it. Who couldn’t? Part of the reason I came here is to seek wisdom in how to harness this new power without releasing the taint.”
Three faces stared at him in horror.
“You can’t mean that,” the standing man said, stepping close and towering over Havialo.
Havialo took a step back. This wasn’t what he’d expected at all.
“Compared to the ordinary sources, the Breaking is so very potent,” he began.
Raising a fist, the man seemed to vibrate with anger. Havialo stared, shocked. He struggled to understand how this meeting had so quickly disintegrated into threats of violence.
“I’ll give you one chance,” Falewill said. “As a last requiem for the bond we share. Repent your suggestion
. And… Given your words, I must ask you to relinquish your gnosty.”
Relinquish his gnosty? How?
“Don’t worry,” the old master continued. “We have our methods.” At that, he nodded at the woman. She acknowledged the gesture with her own nod and stalked to a wood-built cabinet along the wall.
Havialo’s heart slammed against his ribs as he pressed his awareness through the walls of the chamber in search of a source of energy to defend himself. A gathering storm cloud. A tumbling brook. Anything. His font was brimming, ready to unleash a torrent of magic.
“I only wished to learn whether we might safely grow our strength,” he protested as he continued to backpedal from the towering man. “We deserve this power.”
The woman turned her glare on him while she opened the catch on the cabinet. “For the last three years, we have sent geognosts far and wide, doing everything we can to stop this awful Breaking,” she spat. “And still the quakes tear the earth apart. They tumble buildings onto innocent families. They swallow villages whole. And if that weren’t enough, now the corruption swells. We don’t know if it comes from the Maelstrom. We don’t know whether we can stop it once it’s unleashed. But the very thought of trying to break what we wish to heal… it’s…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Falewill raised a hand to quiet further discussion. “Do you repent, Havialo?” As he spoke, he glanced at the woman. Turning from the cabinet, she now carried a black-iron dagger in her hand. Havialo’s eyes widened. Ferro magic. If anything could cut the gnosty out of his soul, that would be it.
“You speak of taint, yet you use the tools of the Maelstrom,” he said.
“Sometimes, we must choose the lesser evil for the greater good,” Falewill said. “Now, one last chance, do you repent? Your magic is forfeit, but your life is not yet lost.”
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