“Chriani… where is the blade of Caradar?”
He shook his head. “Don’t speak,” he managed to say. The taste of metal was in his mouth, the scent of rot filling him. “You’re safe.”
She laughed then. No sense of pain in her, which Chriani knew as a sign that she was close to the end. “I’m already gone and you know it,” she said. “And I need to know this. Please.”
He would tell her the truth. He knew it even before he spoke, felt the decision set itself in his mind with a strange clarity. A test of sorts, he thought. Seeing if the truth was even something he was capable of anymore.
“I gave the blade to Lauresa. She knows to keep it hidden, to let Andreg guard it without realizing it. It’s safe with her.”
He expected the exile to be angry. He expected to see her contempt one last time, her mouth set in the familiar sneer. Dargana’s face was a mask, though, the dark eyes showing only curiosity.
“The blade that killed her grandfather. That nearly killed her. That’s a strange gift to give, half-blood. Why?”
It was a question Chriani had asked himself, almost from the moment he handed the bloodblade to Lauresa in a shadowed glade of the Ghostwood eighteen months before. He had pushed it aside then. Too many other things to think about. Had pushed it aside each time the thought came back to him, each time word of the new duchess came from Teillai to Rheran across the Clearwater.
There were birth celebrations in Aerach, almost a year ago now. He had felt the question come back to him then, but he understood the answer only now. Holding Dargana’s freezing hand in the dark, waiting for the end.
“Because Ilmari and Ilvani were one folk once. And they need to be again. The hate has to stop. Some good has to come of all the blood of the past. Or the Ilmar has no future.”
“And you think she’s the one to do it? Living ensconced as some duke’s pet in Aerach?”
“She’s strong enough,” Chriani said, and he felt a sense of other lives splitting off from his own. Splitting off from those long days of the deep winter eighteen months before. Another life Lauresa might have lived if she’d been left to choose the terms of her life. “If she’s not able to do it herself, she’ll show others the way.”
The hand that was squeezing Dargana’s was warm. Chriani looked down to see her bloodblade clutched in his shaking fingers. He hadn’t seen her press it to him, hadn’t thought she could still move.
“Carry it from here,” she whispered. “Don’t let the lóechari claim it.”
“I’m sorry…” Chriani said at last, but Dargana hissed him to silence.
“Keep both blades safe. Find your path, half-blood. And know that Veassen was right.”
A chill twisted through Chriani. But whether in response to Dargana’s words or the faint trace of footfalls rising through the shroud of leaves around them, he didn’t know.
“Veassen’s a fool,” he said. “And this was a fool’s errand. We shouldn’t have…”
“The heir of the exile’s blade,” Dargana whispered. “You have fate behind you, Chriani, whether you like it or not. You’ll know what it means…”
She was silent after that.
Chriani crouched beside her for a long while. Silence hung around him again, but he could see the great trunk of the limni at the platform’s inside edge now. The shadow was lifting.
Dargana was ice cold to his touch suddenly. Something had changed. Chriani tried to focus, wondering whether he’d blacked out. Still no sound of sentries, but the hissing alarm-call of the Ilvani was rising in the distance, faint on the wind.
As he reached down to close Dargana’s eyes, he saw the platform clearly around her. White wood mottled black and grey, shot through with mold. And no sign of blood anywhere except where faint traces had come off her armor and the soaked tunic beneath it.
She hadn’t bled here. Not a drop of her life spilled out, because she hadn’t died here. Which meant she’d been dead already. Had probably slipped away even as Chriani climbed.
That made no sense, though. He felt for the shadow deep in his mind. He pushed the thought away.
With Dargana’s bloodblade, he cut strips from her tunic, used them to bind his leg where Farenna had cut him. The razor sharpness of the Ilvani backsword had probably saved his life so far, the cut perfectly straight and all but sealed. Nothing torn, none of the fast blood hit that would have pumped his life away.
You have fate behind you, whether you like it or not, Dargana had said. She’d been lying before, in the council chamber. It was more than revenge she was out for. She’d believed in something. She’d believed in some at least of Veassen’s children’s tales.
She’d believed in Chriani and was dead for it now.
You’ll know what it means.
But he didn’t know. Couldn’t think on it. It was too late.
He stood up carefully, felt the pain at his leg surge against the shadow in his mind, skipping through thoughts as if he might be flipping pages in an atlas. What they’d seen coming in, the route to the temple that had left so many dead behind him. Horse patrols on the perimeter, sentries in the trees. Cult agents among the Ilvani of Laneldenar, their minds in shadow, their movements tracked. No way to risk action from the Greatwood as long as the magic of the cult was maintained.
He had done what he set out to do. What they had all set out to do.
Farenna had accepted Chriani among his riders. Obligation and trust.
He was the last one left. He needed to get back with what he knew. To Sylonna, to Aerach, it didn’t matter. His horse would know the way back to the hidden city. A faster ride, no chance of getting lost. But if he rode for Aerach, made it to the frontier fast enough, it might stop the Ilvani from following. He could return to Kathlan, take the rites with her. He would ride into Teillai a hero.
Chriani heard a laughter that he realized was his own voice. He forced himself to silence, shook his head to clear a wave of darkness settling there. His focus was drifting, his thoughts slipping away from him.
He needed to run. That was all.
He slipped Dargana’s bloodblade to his belt, clenched his fist to feel the warm touch of the black ring there. A rope bridge was visible at the far end of the platform, the storm of shadow all but faded back to its original web of dark lines. Chriani was already running as he vanished from sight.
The shadow that surrounded him as a sign of the ring’s power forced him to move slowly, needing to focus on the path ahead and the sounds of movement around him. The sentries and warriors of the cult were racing across the dark network of bridges and platforms that surrounded the black tree, spreading out from that center even as Chriani tried to find his way down to the ground.
The dead shrine they had passed through was his goal, but the path was elusive. He needed that landmark to find the horses again, he knew. Too much of a chance to get himself lost in the forest if he set out at random. He needed to retrace the route Farenna had followed to bring them in, but he felt himself trapped in a maze of three dimensions. Picking out course after course, only to have each one vanish into dead ends, fallen platforms, and sentries standing watch at key bridge points.
He learned quickly to check for signs of traffic, avoiding bridges and ladders that showed no use. He had missed those signs the first time and nearly been lost, moving onto a bridge whose ropes had rotted through and torn away to nothing beneath his first step. He had caught the platform’s edge, just barely. Had seen sentries below him, pointing up to mark his position where they heard him hit, then racing back into the shadows.
Those sentries were in constant motion around him now, a presence felt in the distance even as their exact positions went unseen. Chriani’s senses couldn’t follow them, couldn’t track through the chill that twisted through him, turned all his thoughts to points of brightness and shadow in his mind. It was the blood-shock, still trying to settle in on him but fought with all the strength he had left.
Though the power of the ring p
rotected him from the sight of the lóechari, he caught them reacting to his passage more than once. He was moving as quietly as he could, shrouded by equally faint footfalls and hissing shouts to all sides. It wasn’t enough, though. They could hear him, could sense him somehow. He thought of the keenness of his own senses, the gift of his father’s blood. But it was nothing compared to the hunters’ sight and hearing of the Ilvani as they closed in around him.
His leg had been agony at the start, but he had forced himself beyond the pain. Pushed past it to find a steady, shuffling pace. His foot and lower leg had long since gone numb, though, the pain replaced by a dull ache that rose higher with each step. He was slowing as a result, fearful of a stumble sending his leg out beneath him. The power of the ring, the shroud of shadow it spread over the darker storm from the well, made it that much harder to judge distance as he moved.
If he fell, if he twisted or broke his ankle with a misstep, it was over.
He was descending along a platform’s anchor rope, forced over the edge when three sentries had appeared along the bridge he’d been hoping to take. He hung by his arms and legs, shifting carefully. Timing his movement with theirs so the tremor in the rope wouldn’t be seen. He heard them pass by, was nearly down to an empty platform below when he felt the numbness of his leg flare to an unfamiliar warmth.
Where both legs wrapped around it, the fraying rope had torn at Chriani’s makeshift bandage. The wound was bleeding again, and badly. He saw it dripping freely, watched as a spill of blood shimmered to become visible as it left his body. Coalescing out of thin air to a red rain as it fell.
He dropped to the platform quicker than he’d wanted to, putting the weight of the landing onto his good leg. Even through shadow, he saw the red-black gleam trailing behind him, saw it flowing down to trace his footsteps as he moved.
Onto the next ladder, climbing to reach a terrace that he thought might lead him to the ground, Chriani heard a hissing from behind him. He glanced back to see an Ilvani scout low to the platform he had just fled. She was running a hand along the planks, was sniffing the blood she’d found there.
“Laóith!” Against the silence in which the Ilvani were hunting, her voice rang out like an alarm bell. Hissing rose in the darkness all around, calls of response. Chriani hauled himself off the ladder, hit the terrace running. He felt movement behind him but didn’t look back.
He didn’t know how much time he had, but he knew this was the end.
He pushed himself along a short bridge, dropped at the end of it to lower himself to another platform below. He could see the ground, the dark spread of rotting leaves. Footsteps above him, hissing voices from below. If he took the time to stop and rebind the wound, they would likely find him. And even if they didn’t, he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to move again if he stopped, the numbness in his leg turned to a grating sensation now with each step.
They would find him. He felt his scattered thoughts spinning past him, but they all circled around that point of final understanding. No chance to doubt or deny it. They could capture him. Would torture him, most likely. The Ilvani sorcerers would have truth magic. They would have the magic of the black arrow, consuming his will. And then what?
He knew things, he realized. An idle thought, drifting in from the darkness where all Chriani’s past days were hidden away. He was of rank and commission now, had ridden with the rangers. He knew the movements of troops along the Brandishear frontier. Knew the defenses of Konaugo Post and other camps. He’d finally been trusted with that knowledge, had proved to Barien, to Kathlan, to himself that he had what it took to be part of the prince’s guard. He had been granted a position of power at long last, and now all Chriani could think about was whether he’d give all that away.
If he were dead, would that protect him? He didn’t know, wanted to know. He felt the thought sharp in his mind, digging in like the spike of pain at his shoulders as he hauled himself up a ladder, not knowing where he was going anymore. He was climbing with his arms alone, using his good leg to support himself but unable to bend the other enough to reach the rungs.
The Ilvani hated the healing magic of the Ilmari, feared the raising of the dead. An abomination of the spirit, they called it. Chriani knew this, had learned it. But would they use such magic on their enemies? Bring the dead back to speak again, or to endure more of the torture that had killed them in the first place?
Kathlan would have known. Her love of lore. She would be able to tell him. Chriani wondered where she was.
He knew about Lauresa. A sudden thought, stark in his mind, pushing all else away. He knew where the blade of Caradar was hidden, knew who held it. If the Ilvani caught him, they would know.
He landed hard on an empty platform, slipped on a patch of black mold and had to stop to right himself. A silence hung around him as he looked down to see the black tree looming close. He could see the platform, could see the white stair below him. He was running the wrong way.
The platform shook beneath his feet, Chriani turning to see an Ilvani sentry crouched where he had dropped from above. A hiss of warning sounded out, the sentry’s teeth set in a feral display, golden eyes blazing as he launched himself toward Chriani at a run.
He shifted in time, but just barely. The Ilvani was attacking by instinct, by whatever sense told him where the invisible Chriani had been standing an instant before. Dargana’s bloodblade was in his hand, but Chriani couldn’t remember drawing it. He drove in hard, one chance to strike unseen. He stabbed up below the ribs but the Ilvani rolled with it, took the blade across his stomach. A flash of blood and steel against his leather. Barely a wound.
Chriani was visible. He felt the shadow fall, saw the Ilvani’s golden eyes focus on him as his leg gave way. He pitched over onto his good knee, felt a flare of pain that held him immobile. The Ilvani loomed over him, ready to strike.
He wanted to throw Dargana’s blade, wanted to send it into the shadows, see it fall to the forest floor. Don’t let the lóechari claim it, she had said, but he didn’t have the strength to lift it.
He waited for the Ilvani to end it. Felt a shifting uncertainty in the corner of his mind that was still watching, conscious of his vision narrowing, turning to shadow at the edges. But the sentry turned away suddenly, spinning as if hearing something behind him.
Chriani watched the sentry stand there for what seemed a long while. Then the long-knife dropped from his hand as he crumpled slowly to the platform floor.
A bloody gash crossed the warrior’s abdomen where his armor had been laid open. Not the scratch Chriani had made, but a rough wound, up and under the ribs. A small dagger, a jagged blade.
He saw the Uissa assassin standing over the fallen Ilvani, the knife still in her hand. Bright red streaked her arm to the elbow, contrasting the darker stain of blood dried on her tunic and leggings, though the arrows Chriani had left in her were gone. She was watching him, thoughtful.
“Each time we meet, warrior, you look surprised.”
Chriani was prone on the ground, couldn’t remember falling. The assassin had moved, was on top of him now. Her fingers were at his lips and chest, warm.
“Wait,” she whispered. Tician, she had called herself. He remembered that.
He felt his mind clear. He felt the pain at his leg flare for an instant to white-hot fire, then fade just as quickly to the dull ache that healing magic left behind.
“Now move.”
The assassin hauled him to his feet with a strength that belied her size, her slender frame. A surge of strength pushed through Chriani as he rose. He had Dargana’s bloodblade still in hand, clenched it tightly as he followed Tician to the edge of the platform. His pace was unsteady, his leg still aching even after the healing magic she’d given him. Not a draught, but something else. Spellcraft, Chriani thought. The wound had closed, though. His step was erratic, but he could feel it at least.
Footsteps were pressing in around them as she went over and down, latching onto one of th
e rope cables connecting the platform to a larger terrace below. A roof of branches covered them as they passed through it, Chriani tensing as he fell into green shadow, no way to see the terrace as he dropped.
He hit hard and stumbled forward, the healing magic leaving a sense of fragility behind that hadn’t yet passed. Tician was waiting for him, her knife in hand as she reached out to grab him. He responded by instinct, twisted around to block her, the bloodblade at her throat.
The assassin smiled. Her own knife was at his leg, Chriani realized. She ignored the bloodblade as she cut through the ruined cloth he had used to bind the cut, grabbing it up and throwing it over the edge of the terrace to a dark platform below.
“Something for them to find,” she said. “So they’re not looking too closely here.”
Movement sounded out above and around them. Bridges stretched off to right and left, but the platform’s edge where Tician stepped up to it was open to the air. No way up or down that Chriani could see.
The assassin stood there for a long moment, not moving. One hand held up before her as if in warning.
The platform shivered faintly beneath Chriani’s feet. Movement on one of the bridges, someone approaching. But as he shifted close to Tician, all the questions he meant to speak died on his lips as a pulse of silver light opened up before her. She spread her arms wide, the light expanding in response. Shimmering as a circle beyond the platform’s edge.
The assassin leaned back to grab Chriani’s hand. She pulled him forward, leaping into empty air. Chriani fought the urge to break away, forced himself to follow. He made the moonsign as he went.
His feet struck something solid, his legs buckling where they’d been pulled up in the reflex of a jump. The silver light was a globe around them, wrapping them like a shimmering wall. Tician twisted around, drew her hands together as the portal faded.
Three Coins for Confession Page 37
