by J. F. Lewis
Queen Kari shook her head. “I dreamed that Kholster came to the Grand Conjunction with the five thousand exiles and there was fire and blood and the breath of demons. I dreamed the gods screamed in terror at what will take place.”
Wylant eyed Yavi, who stood watching them intently but was drawn into a game with her peers. Wylant listened to the sproutling’s laugh, studied the determination on her face when she was behind in the game and the look of empathy on her face when she’d been in the lead too long and surrendered it to another sproutling. Wylant didn’t really look at the other one, Kholburran. She couldn’t.
As playtime evaporated, turning into bedtime, Yavi approached the Queen.
“Mom?” she asked.
“Yes, Yavi?”
“In your dream, did the metal irkanth talk?”
“I didn’t dream of one.”
“Oh. Okay. I did.” Yavi bounced off toward the doorway with the other sproutlings. “It talks to me.”
Bloodmane? Gooseflesh covered Wylant’s neck and arms. Did that little sprout mean Bloodmane?
“Did that mean something to you, kholster Wylant?” Queen Kari asked.
Wylant nodded. “It did indeed. Thank you for your time. You’ve given me much to think about. I suspect Yavi will do well. And the Zaur—”
“We’ll keep watch, but I suspect Xalistan of clouding our perceptions as well.”
“Dienox and Xalistan working together?”
“Or playing the same game,” Kari answered. “If we detect Zaur I’ll send word.”
Wylant nodded and, summoning a burst of elemental air, she flew free of the courtyard, her hand gripping Vax’s pommel so tightly he cried out, sounding far too much like—
It was only afterward that she wondered at her display of magic. Why had she done that? Was she really jealous of Queen Kari?
Yes, she decided, and Yavi, too. Both the Vael who’d been with Kholster at the last Conjunction and the one who would be with him at the next. And every Vael who’d ever been to a Conjunction.
The forest opened up below her like a quilt of green covering the ground. To the north, she saw the open scar of Kevari Pass and turned slightly east to fly toward Porthost and her Sidearms. In the distance an irkanth roared and Wylant caught herself flying briefly toward it, then corrected her flight path again. The time for playing in the woods was over.
“Why don’t you go as the Eldrennai representative?” Rivvek had asked her many years ago.
“Because he does not accept me as one of you,” Wylant answered again to the empty air. “I am an Oathkeeper. Aiannai.”
“Couldn’t I be an Oathkeeper, too? I wasn’t even alive when the Aern were slaves.”
“Ask him,” Wylant remembered saying. She wondered if the prince had done so.
When Rivvek had returned, he’d refused to talk about the Conjunction except to ask, “Why does he come back every hundred years if he hates us so much?”
“Because we make him promise,” Wylant had answered. “Every century, with the help of the Vael, we secure another hundred years of peace by making him swear to give it to us.”
“But why does he agree?” Rivvek had asked. “I’ve felt how much he hates us, seen the truth in his eyes as he recounted the Battle of As You Please. My father was alive for that. I understand why Kholster wants us dead. What I don’t understand is why we did that to them. And how he can . . . can . . .”
“It is very important to Kholster that he is a better person than the Eldrennai.” Wylant soared higher, lost in the remembered conversation. “And even more important that we know and admit it to be true. The truth is, I think he’s tired of killing. As long as we agree to peace on his terms, no one wants peace more than he does.”
“Then why not forge a lasting peace? Why meet every hundred years?”
Frost formed on Wylant’s armor, her breath coming in quick, sharp gasps, the air so high up hard to breathe. The temptation to fly higher and higher until she froze or couldn’t breathe at all and fell unconscious back to the ground rose up from that place deep within her that felt she should never have survived the Sundering.
“Other than the prophecy? It is because Kholster must not let his oaths conflict,” Wylant said again, her breath trailing vapor. “And he knows the pride of our people. We will not remain guilt-ridden forever unless he is there to remind us. There would always be an Eldrennai who wanted to enslave our former slaves once more or create new ones to fill the void of their absence . . . unless Kholster remains a constant haunt, a nightmare waiting to become real again and punish all who stray from the path.”
Closing her eyes against tears, Wylant allowed herself one good rant to the sky, to the gods, to whomever would listen. Why did Dolvek have to be so stupid? Why had he broken the truce? Why was she the one who always had to work behind the scenes to make sure her people would live another century, to ensure the right Vael was sent, and that the Eldrennai was . . . was . . .
She did not want to fight Kholster ever again. Didn’t want to see his face on the field of battle. She wanted to . . . to . . .
Not yet, a voice she would not remember hearing seemed to echo in her mind. Not yet.
Wylant felt a great weight on her head, as if a mighty hand reached out of the atmosphere and pressed her almost gently downward, back to the ground. When she regained her senses, she was back in Porthost, in a hot bath, and she could barely remember why she’d been so angry.
“One last time,” she whispered to herself. “One last Conjunction and then . . . then,” she looked around frantically to find Vax, who had shifted into the form of a weighted chain and curled up along the edge of the brass tub, “then we see if he can forgive what I’ve done, if he can help . . . us. Then the Eldrennai will be on their own.”
CHAPTER 13
BETTER OFF DEAD
Five young Aern moved hurriedly up the stone steps carved into the mountainside. Overhead, masses of wavy clouds filled the sky, like breakers on a storm-tossed sea. On the lee-side of the mountain, the ice-heavy clouds still hung high, but Rae’en discerned the dip as the clouds angled lower toward the windward side. Suppressing a shiver, as if she were already as immune to the climate as a full-grown Aern would be, she tried to think about why her father had summoned her. If she’d been born before the destruction of the Life Forge and been one of the Armored, she could have thought the question to him in private and he might have answered her, but that would never happen.
No warsuit for her. Ever. Rae’en hated the Eldrennai for that more than for all of their other faults combined.
Joose stumbled up the steps from her, and she turned to catch him, only to find M’jynn had already steadied his fellow Overwatch.
“Don’t think about it so hard,” Rae’en said.
“Easy for you to say, ma’am. You can only half-read them.”
“Read?” Rae’en frowned.
The bone-steel embedded in the steps reveals more information to an Overwatch, Kazan thought at her.
What kind of information? Rae’en thought back.
Direction, Joose thought back.
Step number, Kazan added, and the identity of the Aern with whose bones they were marked.
Some of them even have tips or stories embedded in them, M’jynn thought, as an embarrassed Joose pulled away from him.
Really?
Don’t worry, Kazan thought back. We’re your Overwatches. If we glean anything interesting, we’ll relay it, kholster Rae’en. Deal?
Deal.
Rae’en looked over her shoulder at Kazan with a smile, studying the Aern anew. She’d chosen well when she’d made him her Prime Overwatch. He was intuitive and a good Aern. True, Kazan had not yet hit his growth spurt. Either that or he’d taken after both Serah and his father M’rask. Both were short for Aern. It was odd to think their offspring might be shorter still, but it was possible. Rae’en knew that other species bred with others of their own kind. Maybe it was good to develop new scarlines, bu
t Rae’en couldn’t picture herself breeding with one of her own species. Mate, yes, but breed . . . no. In her, Kholster’s scarline was unbroken, and she intended to keep it that way.
Kazan met her gaze, eyebrows lifting.
“It’s not a deal?” she asked.
“Not that,” Kazan said, “the other part.”
“What other part?”
The “mating, but not breeding” with other Aern part. What’s that about?
I thought that at you?
Seems as though you didn’t intend it.
Sorry, she thought back. I’m not yet used to having four males at the edge of my thoughts.
It’s okay, M’jynn butted in. Hearing a running commentary from your point of view is eye-opening.
Can ALL of you overhear my thoughts? Rae’en broadcast to her Overwatches.
When you send them, ma’am, Joose thought back, confusion ringing clear in his mind. Why? Did I miss something?
Some Overwatches diligently listen only for those things directed at us, Arbokk thought. Though we probably all overhear you at times.
“Great,” Rae’en said under her breath, “I’m going to be one of those kholsters who walks around muttering to myself to keep things private.”
Bone Finder, Joose thought to Rae’en. A rough map of the mountainside bloomed in her mind’s eye with the spot he wanted her to see glowing a pale gold. A hundred count later, Rae’en spotted the figure clad in pearlescent bone-steel mail under black brigandine. Light caught on the white of his helm, and Rae’en’s lips curled into a grin. The skull-like helm served two official purposes: protection and marking the wearer as a servant of the Aernese Ossuary. Soul-bonded equipment required bone-steel. Ossuarians tracked and recorded bone-steel deposits, handled withdrawals, and, when the bones of dead Aern were lost or stolen, it was a Bone Finder who was sent to retrieve them and bring them home. They also followed the first One Hundred around . . . just in case.
Which one is it? Rae’en thought at Kazan.
I don’t know each and every Bone Finder by sight, Rae’en! Kazan replied with a start.
I bet it’s Zhan, Joose thought.
The first Bone Finder? Arbokk thought back, Last of the One Hundred? No. Might as well expect it to be Teru or Caz or Whaar.
Easy enough to tell those three apart from here, M’jynn thought, Zhan bonded to a warpick even though he prefers a sword. That Aern doesn’t have a warpick on his back, so he can’t be Zhan.
Teru uses an axe, Arbokk put in.
Whaar favors a sword, Joose added.
“It’s Caz,” Rae’en gasped.
As if he heard her, the figure turned, whipping twin long knives from reverse sheaths hanging from his back. He clanged them together once in salute before re-sheathing them and continuing on his way. Rae’en wondered what it would be like to be as old as Caz, wondered what it must be like to retrieve the stolen bones of her people . . . and then she wondered what it would be like to do it all without uttering a word.
“Caz the silent,” Kazan said, aloud. “Silenced by Ghaiattri flame.”
Caz of the Long Knives, Joose thought with a shiver. Bone Finders scare the yarp out of me.
Rae’en fought the urge to laugh at how quickly the word had spread among the Aern. Her father liked the word “yarp,” so now it was the word. He’d changed their whole language with a single casually expressed preference. She shook her head and kept listening.
Bone Finders? Arbokk thought. Why do they scare you?
Can you imagine being so attuned to other Aern’s bones that you can home in on a specific Aern and track their metal? Joose thought. So good that you can sense the smallest sliver from a whole world away, yet still be unable to send a thought to another living Aern?
Zhan can communicate with the other Armored, Rae’en thought at the others, through his warsuit. End Song is quiet, too, though, Dad told me once. Most Finders are. He says we could all learn from them. Whenever they talk, we should listen.
Caz is one of the Armored, as well, though . . . right? M’jynn asked.
Silencer is his warsuit, Rae’en thought with a nod.
So . . . he can talk to the other Armored . . . ?
Maybe, Rae’en answered. I guess so. I’ve never asked. Certainly Silencer can speak to Caz as well as to the other warsuits.
After that, discussion fell back to what kinds of soul-bonded weapon they each were going to make. Rae’en knew she wanted a warpick, but she also knew she wanted it to be something special. Something that would stand out and be noticed. Joose was undecided, which flummoxed all of them. How could he be eleven and not know his chosen implement? M’jynn preferred the elegance of a sword. Arbokk made noises about an exotic weapon he’d heard they used far off in Gromma: a cross between an axe and a sword that made the others groan. Kazan, a traditionalist like Rae’en, said he planned on a warpick, too. For the remainder of the jaunt to meet Kholster, they all took turns trying to convince Joose to favor one weapon or another.
*
A candlemark later, Joose sent Rae’en an image of the watchtower platform. Kholster, Vander, and two other Aern stood atop the stone. Her father stood off to one side with Vander, while the other two spoke together in whispers.
What are they doing? Rae’en asked. Do you recognize—
She clipped off the thought before finishing it. She recognized the two Aern. One was Foresworn, formerly Parl, Fifty-Third of One Hundred. The other was Parl’s Incarna, Parli. It was weird to see an Incarna standing next to the member of the One Hundred he physically duplicated. Uled, the mad Oathbreaker responsible for creating the Aern had not, according to Kholster, meant for Incarna to exist, but they happened all the same. Incarna were physical duplicates of the original One Hundred Aern, waiting—mainly in the old days—to receive the knowledge and experience of the original in the event of his death, so that the One Hundred would remain unbroken, a fixed core of Kholster’s army to counsel him and carry out his orders. Nowadays, the One Hundred could only die by choice, unless being Foresworn changed that, so Incarna had always seemed a bit redundant to Rae’en.
Rae’en had grown used to the sight of Irka, her brother and Kholster’s Incarna, standing next to her father, but Irka had long ago asked their father to release him from his duty as Incarna, and Kholster had immediately done so, allowing Irka to wear his hair long and tattoo himself. Irka would have been easy to tell apart from their father without the full-body tattoos that now left only his face unmarked. His bearing was always relaxed and welcoming, as if he were quite willing to take whatever the world had to throw at him and be amused by it, whereas Kholster seemed, even in his happiest moments, ready to seize an attacker and rend him to bits, with a smile on his face and blood on his canines.
Never mind, Rae’en thought to her Overwatches. That’s the Foresworn and his Incarna. Let’s see what’s tracking.
“Reporting for duty—” Rae’en began only to see the glow of her father’s pupils as his voice rang in her mind and the minds of all Aern.
All know, his voice echoed, Rae’en, by Kholster out of Helg, will kholster the fate of Parl, Fifty-Third of One Hundred forged by Uled, Foresworn. Outcast. Oathbreaker. Not Aern. He lives or dies this day at her command.
“Kholster Rae’en.” Kholster nodded at her, holding out his arm that she might clasp it, each clasping the other’s forearm. He smiled at her, but it was not a father’s smile. It was his kholstering smile, the one he gave to all Aern newly in command.
He released her forearm, moving past her to the steps.
Rae’en’s mind erupted in conversation all at once.
“You all know how to transmit your observations to me?” Vander asked aloud, looking at each of Rae’en’s Overwatches in turn.
“Yes, sir.” Kazan answered for the group.
“Then I suggest you take up your positions and do so,” Vander said gently.
Rae’en mind raced, but her Overwatches took up positions at four cardinal po
ints, as if the guard station were a compass. Instead of facing outward, however, to keep a lookout, their gazes faced inward at Rae’en, Parl, and Parli.
To kholster a decision involving one of the One Hundred, Joose thought, awed.
I think our kholster is up to the challenge, M’jynn smirked.
Rae’en saw Kazan flinch, casting a heated glance in Arbokk’s direction, then Rae’en heard Kazan’s thoughts. Arbokk is right, we’re to assist our kholster, not distract her. Everyone transmit only what you scout and keep the chatter out of kholster Rae’en’s head.
Very good, Vander’s thought came in mutedly. I was about to mention it myself. Proceed.
Rae’en gulped at the feeling of Vander at the edge of her mind, not intruding but observing the tactical information. As Kholster’s lead Overwatch, she knew he had the power and authority, even the duty, but the reality of his presence left her feeling guilty and exposed.
“Right,” Rae’en muttered under her breath. She stepped toward the Foresworn, the heels of her boots clicking crisply on the cold stone. Silence. All eyes on her. A cold breeze picked up, scattering a flurry of snow between them. Rae’en stared at the two males in front of her.
The two had been duplicates, identical, interchangeable. Now the differences in Parl glared forth. Withered, she thought to herself. He looks withered and dried out.
He’s shorter than his Incarna now, M’jynn thought at her. By half a hand.
“Is it true that you cannot hold metal, not even bone-steel?” Rae’en asked the Foresworn.
“It’s true.” His voice was . . . she wasn’t sure, but it was wrong. Strange.
She held out her hand near his chest and felt the truth of what he said. It was as if some invisible barrier had risen between them. She could push her hand close to his chest, but then it would slide away.
“What do you eat now?”
“My body won’t process meat very well, not unless I chop it small and cook it thoroughly. I mainly eat stews and soups.” He started to look away, but didn’t. Parl held Rae’en’s gaze even though it obviously pained him. “And it’s difficult without my teeth.”
