“No.” Caeden shook his head firmly. “The Shalis using kan would go against everything that they stood for.”
“Could it have been someone like us?” asked Meldier quietly.
They looked at each other uncertainly. “Surely El would have shown us,” said Isiliar.
“He can only do so much,” observed Alaris.
“But something like that …”
“We cannot assume,” agreed Caeden quietly. “He shows us what we need to know. We all have faith in that. But it may be that this is something that we do not yet need to know.” He hesitated. “Besides, there is one other possibility.”
Alaris nodded, even as the other two looked at him in confusion.
“One of us,” Alaris said quietly.
Meldier stared at him blankly, then snorted. “You’re joking. You think one of us created a Vessel blade, then gave it to a monster like Paetir?”
“I don’t think it,” said Alaris levelly. “But we cannot discount it, either.”
“He’s right, Meldier,” said Caeden gently as Meldier opened his mouth to retort. “Think about Geraldon, or the Spires. Things happened there that seemed odd, but we passed it off as coincidence. Particularly as it’s never been much more than an inconvenience before.”
Meldier subsided and across from him, Isiliar looked thoughtful.
“We’ve traced mages using their Essence,” said Isiliar suddenly. “Could there be a way to do the same with kan?”
There was a short, considering silence from the group, and then Alaris nodded contemplatively. “We’re still only beginning to scratch the surface of how to use it,” he conceded. “Gass or Andrael might know. They’ve been studying it the longest. If there’s not a way, then perhaps we need to find one. A method of making us all accountable for what we do with this power.” He carefully brought Paetir’s blade out from its sheath at his side, laying it on the table. “Cutting the future is impressive enough,” he said quietly. “But the way it sheared through Resonance armor …”
“You think it was made to fight us,” said Meldier.
“Exactly.” Alaris looked each of them in the eye. “Until we know more, this should stay between us, Gass, and Andrael. If we need to make inquiries to anyone else, let’s keep it subtle.” He peered pointedly in Isiliar’s direction.
Isiliar arched an eyebrow in response. “I know how to be subtle.” She was immediately met with a round of exaggerated coughs and amused grins, but her retort was cut off as a flood of locals abruptly poured into the tavern, making a beeline for their table.
It had happened several times already in the past hour, word spreading that they were the ones who had liberated the town from Paetir and his men. Alaris slid Paetir’s blade carefully back into its sheath, out of sight.
A deluge of congratulations and blessings were accompanied by much shaking of hands; Caeden accepted the adulation as graciously as he could, giving the others a wry smile when the strangers weren’t looking. It was awkward, sometimes … but it was also nice. Seeing that they were making a difference. Seeing that they were making people’s lives better.
He leaned back, enjoying the banter and the sounds of jubilation still ringing from outside.
For the first time in years, he felt content.
Chapter 15
Caeden blinked as his vision returned.
He focused quickly this time, aware that the man opposite was watching him intently. Disorienting though these abrupt memories were, he was finding them less exhausting, easier to recover from now—finding it easier to make connections with other memories, too.
This one had been of the Venerate, before the split. They’d been more like brothers and sisters than friends. It had taken Gassandrid a long time to gather them together, but once he had, they had thrown themselves into the work. It had given them purpose—and it had been good. It had felt as though they were finally fighting for something real, actually making a difference in the world rather than just drifting through it. El had given them visions of atrocities, and they had done their best to right them. To bring justice where they could.
Except … it hadn’t been El. It had been whatever it was that lay beyond the Boundary. The being that Asar had called Shammaeloth.
He swallowed, suddenly realizing that he now recognized who was across from him.
“Meldier,” he said softly.
Meldier—it was undoubtedly him; the mannerisms, sharp features, even his steel-gray eyes were just as Caeden had remembered them—cocked his head to one side, examining Caeden curiously. “Where did you just go, Devaed?”
“I …” Caeden trailed off, the initial rush of warmth and affection fading as he recalled their current circumstances. “I was … just surprised. You let me go.”
“Much faster than you did for me,” observed Meldier darkly. He leaned forward, and Caeden could see that his hands were shaking slightly. With anger, probably. “Unlike you, I can make personal sacrifices when the world is at stake.”
Caeden didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing. Meldier’s expression blackened further at the silence.
“Why did you do it?” he asked softly. “Will you answer me that much, at least? I cannot say how often I wondered. Thousands of years of proof. Your friends, all warning you, all trying to help you stay on the right path. I know you weren’t the first to lose faith, but you were by far the most unexpected. The others were all weak, unable to do what was needed for the greater good. But you …” He gave a soft laugh, gesturing around them. “That was never something that you struggled with. So what made you change your mind?”
Caeden shifted uncomfortably. He had no idea of the answer.
Meldier sighed, toying idly with something in his hand. It was a small, flat metal disc with a notched hole in the center. “It doesn’t matter. Events move forward. The deal with the Lyth has been activated, just as Andrael wanted. And I assume that this”—he held up the disc—“is part of your plan to stop them from killing us all.”
He looked up, noticing Caeden’s blank expression and mistaking it for surprise. “It wasn’t that hard to find your hidden compartment,” he said with a satisfied look. He turned his attention back to the object. “Figuring out what this does, though, is another story entirely. I’ve spent the better part of a day trying to analyze it, but the kan scaffolding is so fine that it’s hard to properly see. And what I can see … it has more endpoints than a Lance, plus two Connectors. And no signature.” He’d been talking mostly to himself, but after the last sentence he glanced again in Caeden’s direction. “So I know it’s a companion piece, at least. To what, though? What in El’s name could need to handle power like this?”
Caeden managed to keep his face smooth, hiding his bafflement.
Meldier stared back at him and then grunted, looking irritated but unsurprised by his silence. “I cannot help you if I don’t know what the El-cursed thing does, Devaed.”
“I don’t need your help. I just need that.” Caeden nodded calmly to the disc, though his stomach churned. If Meldier didn’t know what it was, then there was no point in continuing to risk this charade. He’d trapped the man in a device that could only have been meant for torture, and left him there for fates knew how long. How that hadn’t driven Meldier utterly insane, he had no idea—but if Meldier discovered that Caeden had lost his memories, there was no way that Caeden could trust anything the other man said.
“Then why in El’s name release me?” Meldier growled, shaking his head and touching the sword at his hip. Caeden barely stopped himself from flinching at the motion; Meldier seemed under control on the surface, but there was something much darker and wilder lurking beneath his every gesture. “You will tell me the plan. I hold all the cards now—and last I saw you, Devaed, you were intent on imprisoning the entire world. So you’ll have to forgive me for making sure you’re not just going to let the Lyth do so in your stead.”
Caeden repressed a shudder at the cold certainty
of his tone. “I would never do that.”
Meldier stared at him, then sighed. “At least tell me why you freed me, then. You evidently haven’t realized your mistakes and come to make peace, else you’d be telling me what’s going on. So why now? The Nexus is still stable, despite my concerns. The dok’en was still operational, and I assume that your entry keys over there”—he nodded toward the shelf off to the side—“are still working, too. So what has changed, that it doesn’t matter whether your El-cursed Cyrarium gets fed?” He leaned forward. “You would not have let me loose without purpose. We know each other too well for that. So why?”
Caeden shook his head silently. He didn’t know what a Cyrarium was, but he recognized the term dok’en—it was how he had spoken to Alaris on the road to Ilin Illan, what seemed like forever ago now. A place constructed in the mind, seeming almost real while you were there. Meldier’s ability to mentally survive his imprisonment made a lot more sense now, even if the purpose behind it was more unclear than ever.
Meldier gave him a puzzled look.
“You seem … unaffected by being here,” he said suddenly.
Caeden shrugged, trying to conceal his discomfort in not knowing what the other man was talking about.
Meldier watched him for a few moments in silence. “When last you were here, you were more broken than any man that I have ever seen.” He held up his hand to forestall an argument he obviously expected Caeden to make. “You did not see me, and I did not show myself. I apologize for that. But … we all know what this place means to you. You do not need to pretend otherwise. It was quite cunning, actually, hiding the Tributary here.” He grimaced. “And brave,” he added reluctantly.
Caeden’s mind raced. He knew he needed to respond.
“It was a long time ago,” he said eventually.
The man studied him again, this time with a frown.
“No,” he eventually said slowly. “No. Eternity is not long enough to heal those sorts of wounds. Not completely.” His frown deepened as he tapped the sword at his side. “How did you get Licanius? How did you overcome Andrael’s stipulations? We always assumed that he had Seen the one he wanted to wield it being there for another purpose, but …” He leaned forward. “Tell me, Devaed. What is your worst memory of this place?”
Caeden exhaled ruefully.
It had been worth trying, but Meldier knew.
“I have none,” he said simply. “I erased my memories to get Licanius. Asar was meant to restore them, but he was killed before he could finish the process. Though, do not think I will not fight back if you attack. I remember some. Enough.” He paused. “And my name is Caeden now. I’ve changed. The man I was before is gone.”
Meldier shook his head. “No. Here, your name will always be Devaed,” he said quietly, bitterness in his tone.
Caeden grimaced at that, glancing away.
Meldier said nothing for a while, just watching him.
“El take it,” the other man muttered eventually. He gave a soft laugh. “I have no idea whether to believe you.”
Caeden hesitated.
“Read me, then,” he said reluctantly. “I’m being completely honest. And I truly do wish to stop the Lyth, not let them loose.”
Meldier’s frown deepened. “We cannot Read or Control each other,” he said slowly, studying Caeden even more intently than before, his eyes burrowing into Caeden’s skull. “We can share memories, but Reading another of the Venerate’s thoughts is impossible.” Sadness flickered across his face. “That is why, above all else, we needed trust.”
Caeden heard the sorrowful rebuke in the words, and didn’t know how to respond. He knew as soon as Meldier said it that it was true, though.
“You’re still fighting for the wrong side, Devaed,” continued Meldier, his voice quiet. “I don’t know if you remember your madness, but El knows I do. You are in the wrong here.” He leaned forward, gesturing at their surroundings. “Before … everything, that would have meant something to the man I knew. To my friend.”
Caeden scowled. “No—I know what’s going on, Meldier. And even if I hadn’t had it explained to me, I have seen what your ‘right’ side does. You’re the aggressors, the invaders. I’ve seen your soldiers desecrate the bodies of women and children, just to draw out a city’s defenders. I’ve seen the monstrosities you use.” He straightened. “Nothing you say can change that.”
Meldier frowned. “I cannot speak to the specifics,” he conceded, “but a soldier’s responsibility is to his men and his mission; if he can use the tools at hand to gain victory and spare even one of his own people’s lives, then he will—he should—repugnant though those tools may be. That does not mean that he revels in his actions, nor can it ever be the arbiter of whether he is actually good or evil.” He sighed. “War is the very definition of ends justifying means, Tal’kamar—on both sides. When we fight for the greater good, it is a reality that we must accept … and you of all people believed that to be true. In many ways, you are the embodiment of the very thing that you are trying to condemn.”
Caeden’s scowl deepened. “That is a lie.”
Meldier just exhaled heavily in response. “You don’t even know what this place is, do you?”
Caeden glowered but remained silent, unable to refute the point.
Meldier stared out into the gathering gloom. “These are the Plains of Decay,” he continued softly. “They were once the center of the Darecian Empire. Buildings more beautiful than you can imagine, and a people more loving and peaceable than any I have ever known. Centuries ahead in philosophy, art, all kinds of knowledge …” He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “This land was once a single city. An enormous, connected metropolis. It housed millions of people. Tens of millions.”
Caeden shifted uncomfortably. He knew a little about the Darecians, and Meldier’s words tickled at the edges of his memory, but not enough to recall anything specific. “What happened?” he asked, knowing that it was the question expected of him.
“You did. This … this was all your doing.”
Caeden shivered, but shook his head firmly. This was why he hadn’t wanted the man to know about his memories. Meldier was trying to worm his way inside his head, to feed into his fears.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, voice flat.
Meldier was silent. Then, abruptly, he stretched out his hand.
A sliver of black arrowed toward Caeden’s head; he tried to avoid it but it moved with him, striking him in the forehead.
“Then let me show you,” said Meldier grimly.
Caeden moved through the crumbling hallway, numb with shock and grief and fear.
He caught a glimpse of the outside world through the window, and the sight caused him to stumble, to retch in the corner before moving on. The beauty of Dareci was decaying at a horrific rate; the first thirty miles of the city were now little more than a gray, shattered stain on the face of the earth. The crystal buildings of the middle rings still held, as well as the stone of the outer—including the one in which he now stood—but they wouldn’t for long.
Two thousand years. Two thousand years of life, and he had never seen death or destruction such as this.
Tears streaming down his face, he leaned his shoulder into the door at the end of the hallway and burst through it.
The man at the far end of the room was standing at a window, watching. To his right, the machinery of a Gate lay ready to be activated, though Caeden could see the warping of the lines of kan even now. They had minutes. Less, maybe.
The man turned at the sound of Caeden’s entrance. He was tall, his pale skin stark against the shadows cast by the moonlight.
Caeden paused when he saw his expression. There was none of the madness he’d expected, none of the wild, jittering schism of consciousness that surely must have occurred for him to do this. Just hands that were shaking, and rivulets through the dust on his face.
Sadness and guilt. Only sadness and guilt.
“Me
ldier,” said Tal’kamar softly. “I did not know that you were here.”
“Tal.” Caeden leaned against a nearby pillar, suddenly trembling himself now that there was a lack of forward momentum. His heart broke as outside the window, behind Tal, he saw another tower silhouetted in the moonlight silently crumble to dust in the distance. His voice cracked. “Why?”
“You know why. It has to be this way.” Tal drew a deep, shuddering breath. “And it’s Aarkein Devaed now.”
Caeden felt sick. Aarkein Devaed. He recognized the language, though few would. “The fate of all that could be,” in the Shalis’ tongue. They were long-extinct now, their Furnace used only to rebuild dar’gaithin, but Tal’kamar had always thought well of them.
“Aarkein, then,” said Caeden. “Listen to me. This is … madness. Beyond madness. You need to stop it. This is not what we do. You can still stop it.” The last was plea more than statement.
Tal shuddered, the motion noticeable though he’d never stopped shaking. “I cannot,” he whispered. He rubbed his arms, a nervous gesture. For the first time since Caeden had known him, he looked … lost. Broken. “And even if I could, it is inevitable. What was meant to be. I did it, and did it now, because we can use it for our own ends. But with or without me, it was going to happen. He showed it to me.” He coughed, a dry, rasping sound. “We are the blade, Meldier. Just the blade.”
“And yet none of us knew. No one else was told. This was all on you, Tal.” Caeden crept forward, hand outstretched in a calming gesture, approaching as one might approach an easily startled animal. One that could attack at the slightest provocation. “Just think for a moment. Think. Why would this burden be yours alone to bear? Why for this, and for nothing else?” He took another step. Another. “But if you were fooled, somehow. By your mind, by Shammaeloth, by some enemy of the Darecians …”
“I am certain, my friend. El gave me this task,” said Tal quietly.
It was too much for Caeden to take, too hard for him to listen to.
“Can you hear yourself?” Caeden roared the words, rage overtaking fear. “You have just murdered millions of people, Tal! It is the very opposite of what we stand for, what we have been trying to do. We’re here to protect these people! We’re trying to save them!”
An Echo of Things to Come Page 24
