Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  But he had no choice. He had to speak and he had to make them understand. If only he had something he could show them...

  Again, he cursed inwardly that he did not have Ecko with him. Ecko, for all his scorn, would have made them take notice.

  That thought was enough raise a brief, wry smile.

  But the expression was short-lived.

  “That will have consequences, Phylos.” Next to the Merchant Master sat the Justicar Halydd, elderly and spear straight, correct and merciless in her mandate. She’d been a soldier all her life and saw the world around her in very severe terms. Her cloak bore the image of the executioner’s sword. “If we demand greater tithes, the farmlands will become restive.”

  “Then we’re agreed.” Phylos’s gesture indicated the matter was closed. “From now, each central manor brings their own farms’ foods or terhnwood straight into the relevant tithehall. We will secure our surplus and the Varchinde will continue to trade.”

  In one speech, he had assumed control.

  But.

  Secure our surplus? Roderick’s finger-tapping increased. But the fires are genuine – and if you tithe the manors more harshly...

  “I don’t think – !” Demisarr started.

  Phylos was still speaking. “Mostak, the city’s soldiery may be needed to secure and defend the stockpile.”

  “I don’t think – !” The Foundersson tried again.

  But Mostak was answering, “Additional forces can be deployed as necessary.”

  “Then the matter is closed,” Phylos said calmly. “All in favour?”

  “I don’t think – !”

  “That’s enough!” The bellow came from a woman, square faced and strong shouldered, dark of skin and hair, standing at the foot of the table. The Council silenced as she spoke – Roderick realised she was Valicia, Demisarr’s wife. “Pray silence, for the Lord Foundersson.”

  Rhan grinned at her. Mostak nodded stern acquiescence. Phylos shot the woman a look that could have scoured flesh from bone. She flicked an eyebrow back at him, almost daring. Roderick leaned forward, and his escort loomed over him.

  “Tell me,” the Bard said softly. “Will the farmers resist?”

  His escort said only, “Not for long.”

  Not for long.

  With a tremor of fear, the Bard realised that his crisis and Rhan’s had already been lost completely – that no one in this room cared for Ecko, for fires or Elementalism, for alchemical monsters or dying boys, for stone creatures that fell from the wall... They cared only for the terhwnood.

  And Phylos had turned this into some form of power play.

  Not for long.

  If this was how these people thought, this their game – if they cared only for the wealth beneath their noses – how was he to gain their understanding? Rhan’s warning mocked him, They’ll laugh you out of the hall...

  Roderick was belatedly realising that he was utterly out of his depth.

  But he had to make them see!

  Panic began to close round his throat.

  “I really don’t think –” Demisarr stood to speak “– we can force the farmlands to suffer the armoured fist of cruelty from our Lordship. Feeding our people is our priority. Rhan, tell me of these fires.”

  Phylos coughed as though he covered scorn. There was an open ripple of amusement, apparently at the Lord’s naïveté.

  Roderick held his horror silent.

  But Rhan was on his feet. “My Lord, they are not the result of carelessness, though perhaps a military watch would be a welcome thing.” He threw his words across the table like rocks, the stress on the word “watch” was palpable. “We can ration stores and redistribute the crop if necessary. But for now, I would rather understand the cause of these fires and then remove it. Mostak, you’ll assign a force to each and every manor, ensure that each manor’s farms will be patrolled. We need to know what’s doing this.”

  The Bard’s tapping was growing frenzied. With one move, Rhan had effectively narrowed the field of the game to two factions – Phylos and himself. And he would defend the son of the Founder with the last drop of light in his blood.

  Uphold his Gods-given oath.

  Now, the Bard leaned on the back of the seat in front of him, trying to understand the subtle shiftings of power that were playing out below. Phylos and Rhan fought for control – but it was Mostak, the soldier, who held the strength that would enable one of them to win or lose.

  Or was it?

  With a grim smile, Phylos flicked an infinitesimal gesture.

  And another member of the Nine spoke.

  “With respect, I think not – my Lord.”

  At the table’s foot stood a small, dark man, lean faced and empty eyed. There was no symbol on his cloak, no decor at its hem. His hair was the same almost-blue black as the Bard’s and his whisper of Tundran blood betrayed him – this was Adyle, Master of the Institute, the Council’s eyes and ears. He ignored Rhan and addressed the Foundersson directly. “There’s another issue here.”

  Roderick saw Rhan’s expression congeal, saw the figment of dread and dismay as it gathered under his skin.

  Adyle was smiling like a man with well-weighted dice. “It seems,” he said, “that the Seneschal’s ears are closed to warnings. Despite the policy of this city, a policy that’s been in place since the days of Tekisarri himself, Rhan has been importing eoritu from Amos –” he threw a small packet across the table “– and I have every reason to suspect the Bard is his distributor.”

  What?

  The accusation was so sudden, so utterly unexpected... Roderick’s blood thundered in his ears. His panic manifest. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow. As if from some huge, roaring distance, he heard every word, every breath, every shock, every sigh.

  “You dare?” Rhan’s flare of white anger was unexpected – he was furious enough to cover any fear. “You dare go through my house?”

  Horrified, the Bard realised that with this one stroke he had lost the Council, lost their attention and support and sympathy. He would never get the chance to speak his beliefs, to make them understand what he’d felt and seen, never enlist their help for what he now faced.

  And the accusation itself...!

  Without quite realising it, he was on his feet, shrugging off the escort’s attempt to push him back down. “What is this game you play? You know I did not do this!” His blood screamed at him, screamed desperation. Leaving the soldier behind, shouting startled orders, he started to jump down over the seat tiers. Mostak turned, his hand going for the weapon he had left at the door.

  “Gods-damned sehvrak!” Rhan spat venom.

  But the Justicar Halydd was louder. “I knew it! My Lord Seneschal, this time I’ll take you your head! You and that Gods-damned crazed storyteller!”

  “The Bard’s got nothing to do with it,” Rhan shot back, “this filthy little sehv is playing games. What do you want, Phylos? Why have your lackeys gone through my house?”

  “Deny it,” Phylos said. Arms crossed over his huge chest, he was chin up, his expression severe. “Deny the eoritu’s yours.”

  The game had indeed been reduced to two sides, and now one of them was winning.

  The Lord Foundersson Demisarr was on his feet, hands helpless, mouth wordless.

  Swearing, the soldier Mostak left his seat to intercept Roderick.

  “Yes, the packet is mine,” Rhan said. “But...” He stopped at the look the Foundersson gave him, a hurt child, uncomprehending. “My Lord... Demisarr...” He deflated like a windless sail. “I...”

  “You’ve just admitted it.” Grinning like a bweao, Phylos snatched the packet, opened it, sniffed it, threw it at Halydd.

  The Justicar went purple, shaking with outrage. She shrieked, “I will not have this substance in the city!”

  “Oh, get over it!” Rhan rounded on Halydd, his sudden snarl echoed from the walls. “It’s mine – alone. I don’t trade it, Roderick’s never been near it. Take my head i
f you can – if your sword arm’s still strong enough!”

  Roderick vaulted the last of the empty stone seats and stumbled to a halt at the foot of the table. Before him, chaos – the Council of Nine, the rulers of the Grasslands, squabbling like children, jealous, vicious, greedy.

  He had Ecko. There were monsters in the grass. He had witnessed a piece of the past come to life. The very elements stirred beneath their feet. Their harvest burned around them and they used it only for political gain...

  He found himself angry. For the first time in returns beyond count, his hope and his fear were real, and close.

  The world herself screamed in his blood.

  This is a decision!

  And to help her, he had to face down this theatre of fools.

  * * *

  “For SHAME!”

  The acoustics in the theatre were flawless – the force of Roderick’s cry robbed the Council of breath, of motion. He stood at the foot of the table like an avenging black-clad figment, stood as though it were his to command. His gaze met that of the Foundersson.

  “This is the Theatre of Nine, the leadership of the Varchinde, raised by the hand of Samiel and the vision of Saluvarith himself. This is no place for games!”

  Shocked into silence, they stared.

  “You hold the might of the Grasslands in your unready hands, fire spreads through the very thing that brings you life – and yet you sentence your people to perish? Are you so bored? So consumed by greed?” He looked around at each Council member. “How can you face the memory of the Founder with behaviour such as this? How can you sit in this place of your forefathers, and not be shamed?”

  Phylos tapped his index fingers together, his eyes narrow and burning.

  “Remember, as you struggle for power, that the world does not turn around the voices of this chamber; cares not for your politics. I have looked in the falling waters of the Ryll – and for all you plot and grapple and scheme, the thoughts of the world heed you not. If you do not look beyond yourselves, my Lords, your people will starve and perish – and hoarding their wealth will only delay the inevitable. The farmlands will burn, Merchant Master, they will be torn apart by creatures of nightmare, and you will live just long enough to watch.”

  He had them now – Rhan shone, Demisarr held back tears. Phylos eyed him with a calculating smirk.

  “I am here –” with a bound, he was on top of the table, standing there as if he could call fire from the very sky “– to plead with you, my Lords, to throw myself upon your justice and mercy as I have done once before. The elements awaken: alchemical creatures are loose in the grass and the stone of your city has life. I see harbingers of the very peril the world has long feared – the peril I have brought to this Council once before. The Count of Time threatens us all, my Lords – we cannot be turning, one upon another, hurling accusations, sacrificing the innocent for a mere moment of power, a false dawn.”

  He walked, his cloak a billow of black in the cold, white room, crushing the herb and its accusation beneath his boots.

  He stopped before the Foundersson.

  “We must trust, remember what Fhaveon herself was built for. This is a city of power and strength – and I have come to give her new direction. If you wish to challenge the blight in your crops, then you must heed me. You must help me find the greater threat and thus bring the cure and new life to the Varchinde entire!”

  Echoes of passion tumbled across the silence. The Council was still.

  Then the Foundersson stood, looked up at the Bard with a gleam of hope in his pale blue eyes.

  For just a moment, Roderick thought he had won – that he had brought the world’s fear to the notice of the Council of Nine.

  For just a moment.

  Then Demisarr spoke.

  “You are a visionary, Sir Roderick, a crusader for a truth so ancient we’ve lost its meaning...” He paused, shook his head, looked to Rhan... Then his eyes were pulled back to the packet, contents spilled on the tabletop, and he seemed to fold in upon himself, weighted once again by the white cloak upon his shoulders. “Your ardour touches my heart, touches all of us, but you’re asking the impossible. As you say, I’m the son of my forefathers, bound by their law. The elements you speak of are but remnants of children’s superstitions, alchemy is a tale of Tusien.” He picked the packet up, spilled its contents onto the table at the Bard’s booted feet. “Such things have no place in here. I am the Lord of Fhaveon. I must do as the mandate of my family bids. I must care for my people.”

  “That’s not...” The words passed the Bard’s lips before he could bite down upon them. “The world wakens, my Lord.” It was a whisper, but it carried to the very roof. “You must heed me, acknowledge my request...”

  “Like my father did last time?” Demisarr smiled, almost sadly. He crumpled the packet, let it drop. “Roderick, there is no great enemy upon Rammouthe Island, no lore you have missed. Every soldier that followed you died.” He stood up, met the Bard’s gaze. “Get off my table.”

  Mostak laid a cold hand on Roderick’s arm. “Stand down,” he said softly, “or I will break both your legs.”

  Shaking, unable to find a word or a thought to formulate his failure, Roderick did as requested. Dry leaf matter scattered onto the floor.

  Demisarr picked a fragment up, crushed it between thumb and forefinger. “Roderick of Avesyr, members of the Council of Nine – I’m appalled. This accusation is against my mentor, my teacher, my oldest friend. It eviscerates me like a blade.

  “My word is this.

  “Adyle, this one packet isn’t proof – you could’ve brought it from Amos yourself.” The Justicar snorted. “We reconvene in one halfcycle – ten days. You’ve got that time to prove the guilt of the Lord Seneschal and Roderick of Avesyr.”

  Rhan’s expression was as cold as the marble wall, cold as his own carving. Roderick’s blood was pounding in his ears like the feet of an army.

  Ecko had abandoned him. The Council had not heard his voice.

  Mostak’s hand was like cold stone upon his arm.

  The Count of Time was closing his grey cloak about Roderick’s senses. He found tears at the backs of his eyes – it had all been so close, so nearly within his reach...!

  “Rhan, you are under arrest – your title is foregone until your innocence is proven. You are no longer... no longer Lord Seneschal of Fhaveon.” Demisarr’s voice cracked, he took a breath and carried on. “And I don’t need to mention what’ll occur if you fail to attend the next Council.” The Foundersson glanced at the Bard. “Either of you. Roderick, you also. You will join him. Neither you nor your tavern are permitted to depart the city.”

  “I have no way to control The Wanderer,” Roderick said. “You –”

  “Then it’ll move without you,” Demisarr said. “You’ll stay. Mostak?”

  The soldier Mostak commented softly, “Pull a stunt like that again and I’ll gut you myself.”

  “This is madness!” The Bard’s words were a rush. “This is all connected – this is just the beginning. You’ll see. You’ll realise – !”

  “Enough!” Mostak said. “This is Fhaveon – and your crazed arse is mine. Your distraction tactic didn’t work – and your demented preachings end here. No more scaremongering, Bard, or I’ll throw you into the gorge myself.”

  In the cold, white light, Phylos was smiling like a sated bweao.

  * * *

  “What a mess,” Rhan said. “One halfcycle – damn those conniving bastards for going through my house.” Rhan was pacing a small, plain square of a room, three steps one way, three steps the other. The walls were smooth and dry and pale grey. The door was bolted from the outside. “We’re up to our ears in tumultuous world-ending horseshit – and Phylos chooses now to challenge my office? Opportunistic bastard – I wonder how long he’d had that packet of herb?”

  Roderick was quiet, sat on the floor in the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest, like some errant, black-cloaked child. To be so
impassioned and desperate – and to have been unable to touch them... The false accusation bothered him less than his own failure.

  He was lost. He had staked so much hope on this meeting – and his need had fallen to the floor in ashes. Ecko was gone; the Council had refused to hear him. He could not return to The Wanderer.

  Perhaps the greatest test of his life was upon him – and he had failed before he had even begun.

  “Phylos seeks power.” His response was reflex, empty. “If he owned the remaining crop, he could surely hold the city – possibly the Varchinde – to ransom. He could have anything he wanted.”

  “But why?” Rhan spun on his heel. “World domination? Power for its own sake? I don’t think so. Those fires were like nothing I’ve seen in four hundred returns – the ground still ached with the damage inflicted and I could feel the elemental might within. But how does this tangle with your monsters, the resurgence of alchemy, your champion, your ‘Echo’?” He spun again. “I realise it’s all connected – but I’m more damned curious about where it’s going.”

  Roderick looked up, the rocklight reflected broken from his gaze.

  “You’re enjoying this.”

  “Ha!” The ex-Seneschal grinned. “I built these rooms – had them built. When Rakanne’s son Adward expanded his hold over the Varchinde, there was resistance. Not war exactly, more... unrest.” He patted the wall as though he were punching it. “Never thought I’d be the one in here. Or that you’d be damned stupid enough to be in here with me.”

  “I’ve never sold –”

  “They know that. Whatever that bastard’s up to, he wants us both out of his way. There’s a pattern growing. It’s just a question of what.”

  “Ecko talked about patterns,” Roderick replied bleakly.

  Rhan turned, jabbed a finger at the Bard. “Snap out of it, Loremaster, this is no time to feel sorry for yourself. You’ve been waiting for this moment all your life and I can feel pure light in my skin. We are here to face this, exactly this! Perhaps my old enemy wakens at last. We’d better arm up and get nasty.”