by Claire Frank
Another doorway opened to their left, and they walked through into an enormous room. Cecily realized she had been right: the hallways outside circled the entire circumference. The floor sloped downward in tiered steps, a series of wide platforms with broad aisles in between, quickly filling with people. In the center was a raised dais surrounded by five stone pillars, each topped with what appeared to be a dome-shaped piece of stone.
Thousands of Imarans filled the platforms. There were families with children, women with babies strapped to their backs, and groups of young men jostling each other with good-natured jabs. People continued to pour in through the four outer entrances, finding their places among the throng, and a low hum of voices filled the air.
Cecily glanced up at Daro. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide as he stared at the huge gathering. “Have you been here before?” she asked.
“No,” he said, his voice awed. “I had no idea there were so many Imarans.”
She saw Balsam waving them over, and they picked their way through the crowd. He was about halfway down, standing with Leah, as well as Stoker and Shale. Rogan, Alastair, and Mira stood with several other Imarans on a platform near the front. Cecily wondered if they were there to translate.
The crowd hushed, drawing everyone’s attention to the center. Three people gathered around the center dais, holding instruments, and one began to beat a slow but steady rhythm on a drum. The second raised a wooden flute to his lips, and the low notes drifted through the air in a gentle melody. A higher note joined the song as the third began to play, and Cecily’s breath caught in her throat as the haunting song carried through the room.
The light dimmed as the lamps were covered and the music rose in a soaring crescendo. Movement caught Cecily’s eye, and she saw five figures walking down the aisles toward the center. They wore loose shirts that wrapped at their waist, with pants that gathered at their ankles, and all walked with a stately air, their backs straight and heads held high.
Daro leaned close to speak quietly. “The Raeswa.”
It was the first time Cecily had seen the Imaran elders. She had expected them to look old, but instead they appeared ageless. Three were men and two women, and they all had eyes that looked like liquid silver, with no white to them at all. It made Cecily wonder what they could see.
They stood on the center dais and spoke to the assembly, the acoustics carrying their voices to all corners of the huge room. Although Cecily could not understand the words, she was soon lost in the lyrical quality of their speech.
Each of the Raeswa approached one of the pillars and lifted its dome-shaped stone. Cecily couldn’t make out precisely what they were doing, but when they stepped back, the top of each pillar burst into flame and the piece of stone hovered above, as if held by a string. The flames burned in an alternating pattern of color, orange shifting to red that slowly became blue and changed back to orange. Cecily gazed at the fires, mesmerized.
The Raeswa stepped back and a young Imaran approached from one of the center aisles. She was not as tall as the others, looking perhaps thirteen, although Cecily knew the Imarans’ lifespans were different from that of Halthians. Balsam had explained the initiates would all be at least twenty, as Imarans came of age when they were older.
“Do you know what’s happening?” she asked in a quiet voice, leaning close to Daro.
“I think so,” he said. “Those flames appear the same, but there is one that is different—wrong. I’m not sure how else to explain it. The initiates are supposed to use their Sight to determine which flame is corrupt, and then they have to extinguish it.”
“This test is very complex,” Balsam said, keeping his voice low. “It is difficult to describe if you cannot see what we see. As Imarans, we are tasked with protecting against abuses of Fedan’s gift, the energy of life. These flames represent that energy, but one has been tainted. This task shows that the young person can recognize the corruption and redirect the flows of energy to douse it.”
“Can you tell which one is tainted?” Cecily asked.
“I can see it now, but with time we gain experience. When I performed this task, it was not so easy to determine,” Balsam said.
The girl walked around each pillar, gazing into the flames. When she had studied each of them, she moved to the first pillar and placed her hands on top of the stone. It didn’t move, as if it were fixed above the fire. Closing her eyes, she held her hands in place, and gradually the flame diminished and the stone sank down to the top of the pillar. When the fire had gone completely out, she opened her eyes and lifted her hands.
The crowd erupted with cheers and Cecily clapped and called out along with them. The triumph on the girl’s face was infectious, and Cecily felt a swell of emotion at her accomplishment. Two adult Imarans, likely her parents, stepped forward and embraced her as the shouts died down.
The process repeated as the flame was relit and another young Imaran made his way down the aisle. Cecily watched with rapt attention as he analyzed each pillar. After scrutinizing them, the young man chose the correct pillar and worked to extinguish the flames. As the crowd erupted in renewed cheering, something caught her attention from the corner of her vision. She glanced to the side; her breath caught and her chest clenched. Pathius stood on a platform nearby. He wore a cloak with the hood drawn up, but she recognized him instantly. His bright eyes were intent on her face and she held his gaze, despite the jolt of fear that raced through her.
Daro put a hand on her arm and leaned in close. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “I saw Pathius.”
She looked again, but Pathius was gone, disappeared into the crowd. With a deep breath, she turned her attention back to the ceremony, determined to put Pathius out of her mind.
8. DAMN YOUR WEAKNESS
Leaves crunched on the ground beneath Pathius’s feet as he stalked into the forest, fleeing the Imarans’ ceremony. Word had spread of King Rogan’s arrival and, by the time Ara had quietly told him earlier that day, he’d already heard the name spoken a dozen times. As he had made his way through the Halls of Memory with the hoard of Imarans, he’d been prepared to see Halthas’s king.
He hadn’t been prepared to see Cecily.
Stopping, he leaned against a tree and pressed a hand to his forehead. He’d spent the last several months berating himself every time he thought of her, trying to erase her from his mind. She’d never been his to love, and even if she had been, he’d destroyed any chance of it when they were in Caerven. The look on her face as she caught sight of him among the Imarans twisted his stomach and burned his pride.
Why did she have to come here?
Although he knew someone must be following him, he heard no sound of pursuit as he continued farther into the trees. They could track him all they wanted. He just needed to get away from the crowd, and the reminders of his failings.
He came upon a narrow river, one of many waterways that cut through the forest. Several small boats were pulled up onto the riverbank, sleek vessels made of hollowed-out tree trunks. On a whim, he pushed one of the boats into the water and jumped inside. He picked up an oar from the bottom and dipped it into the water, guiding it out into the center of the channel.
The motion of the river was calming and he pushed his oar through the smooth water with a gentle stroke. He knew he shouldn’t go far. The day was waning, the forest already growing dim as the sun traveled toward the horizon, and Ara had been stern in her warnings about the forest. Besides, if he tried to go too far, his watchers would likely think he was trying to run again.
Am I? Why should I stay?
Pressing his lips together, he shook his head as he paddled. Even if he was equipped to make the long trek back to Halthas, where would he go? Imara might not be his home, but he was beginning to feel it was as good a choice as any. The sudden presence of other Halthians left him feeling possessive, as if they were intruding on his territory.
A loud yelp cut through the
silence. It sounded like a wounded animal. Through the press of energy in the forest, Pathius could feel a disturbance, unlike anything he had ever noticed before. Another cry carried across the water and he turned the boat toward the far bank, following the direction of the sound. It almost felt as if something was calling to him, leading him forward.
He jumped out into the shallows and hauled the boat up onto the rocky shore. The underbrush was thick, and he had to take care where he put his feet. His sense of the disturbance grew; it felt like a ripple in the energy of the forest. As he walked, he noticed signs of struggle: trampled-down plants, broken twigs, and bark torn from tree trunks. Another yelp sounded up ahead, louder this time, and Pathius paused, his heart thundering in his chest. He might have been raised in a city, but he knew enough to realize a wounded animal could be dangerous. Following by instinct as much as by sight, he crept deeper into the trees.
A low wheezing sound grew louder, and he came upon a tree with a gash in the trunk, smeared with deep red blood. Beyond the hulking cedar lay a large animal, covered in brown fur. Its torso rose and fell with obvious effort, shuddering as it took each breath. It lifted its head just enough to look at Pathius, its eyes glazed over and dull. It was a broga, one of the large animals the Imarans used like horses. It let out a wheezy whine as it laid its head back onto the forest floor, shuddering with obvious pain.
Pathius took careful steps toward the dying animal. It had a bloody wound on its flank and another on its back. What could have injured such an enormous creature? Glancing around the forest, Pathius saw there were more gashes in the trunks, the bark ripped and torn. Whatever had happened, the animal had thrashed through the forest, leaving a trail of damage in its wake.
The broga only twitched as Pathius drew closer. He could feel the beast’s energy leaking away, almost as if sand were running through his fingers. Closing his eyes, he probed the sensation. He’d never felt the intricacies of energy so keenly. Ara had explained the Imaran view of the energy of life in great detail, telling him how the life of the world was connected, and energy flowed through all things. Pathius’s ability to absorb energy was merely one manifestation of the use of this power, and even his altered abilities were simply a way of moving energy from one place to another. To him, all energy felt the same: a source for him to draw from. He could pull heat or absorb motion, but he had never felt it as anything other than something he could take, something to sate his internal hunger.
This creature’s energy flowed outward and, with it, Pathius could almost feel its pain. Crouching down, he inched closer and realized there was something lodged in the animal’s abdomen. Sharp spikes protruded from a deep green bulb, writhing as it burrowed itself into the beast’s flesh. A spine tree bulb. Ara had taken him to see a spine tree, to warn him from getting too close. The broga must have ventured near one and been hit by its bulb.
Nearby, Pathius found the remains of another bulb, its yellow flesh leaking from the crushed outer shell. The broga must have had more than one spine bulb lodged in its body and torn the others free. The last one, however, appeared to be winning its battle with the giant creature.
The broga whimpered again, and rage poured through Pathius. He could Absorb the creature’s energy and end its misery, but it angered him beyond reason that there was nothing else he could do. Why had he been cursed with an ability that was good for nothing but destruction and death?
He thought about Cecily’s poisoned wound, and how he had frozen the scratch in her forehead to stop the rot from spreading. Hadn’t he saved her? He didn’t want to think of her, so he shoved the memory of her from his mind, forcing himself to forget the feel of her warmth flooding through him. The fact remained, he had done something other than destroy. Perhaps he could do it again.
Moving slowly, he drew closer to the broga. Its back leg shook as he approached and Pathius jumped back, afraid of being kicked by the strong beast. Carefully, he reached forward and drew the energy out of the spine bulb. The animal let out a breathy yelp as frost began to encrust its skin around the wound. Pathius tried to differentiate the flows of energy, pulling from the bulb and not the broga. The power in the bulb was robust, full of vigor and vitality, while the broga’s energy was weak and dwindling. He focused on the bulb until it stopped burrowing into the creature and fell out, nothing more than a frozen husk.
Blood ran freely down the broga’s side and Pathius still felt its life leaking away. The wound was deep, but if he stopped the bleeding, he might still save the animal. He froze the outer flesh to stop the blood flow, and moved around to the creature’s side to get a better view of its other injuries. The spine bulbs had left behind deep wounds where they had been torn from the broga’s flesh. Pathius tried to seal the injuries to keep them from bleeding further, but he still felt the broga slipping.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, Pathius laid his hands on the dirt at his feet. A sheen of ice spread from his palms as he drew in energy from the ground. He placed his hands on the animal’s back, spreading his fingers through the coarse fur, and tried to push the energy back out, into the broga. The creature’s body jerked, then fell still. Pathius tried again, letting the life of the forest flow through him. It burst from his hands into the animal, making its legs kick and its head jolt up.
Filled with desperation, Pathius delved into the creature, feeling the last of its life coursing through its veins. Its impending death pulled him down, as if Pathius himself were being sucked into the ground. He drew in another surge of heat; ice crept up the trunks of the trees and shimmered on the branches above him. He thrust his power into the broga, channeling all he could muster into the creature. The beast thrashed as it let out another whimper, and its body went still. Pathius closed his eyes and felt the last of the broga’s energy drain away.
Furious, he grabbed the frozen spine bulb and hurled it into the forest. The feeling of impotence was overwhelming. Nihil had made him one of the most powerful Wielders in living memory, but to what end? He was nothing but a leech, a monster that could prey on the energy of the helpless.
He kicked the frozen ground, breaking the sheet of ice, as his father’s voice ran through his mind. Damn your weakness. It seemed strength wouldn’t serve him any better.
9. UNEXPECTED VISITOR
Pathius barely remembered his introduction to the Raeswa; it was little more than a blur in his memory, a haze of confusion and frustration. He had come before them, staring at the assembly of Imarans, feeling dead inside. There had been nothing they could take from him, save his life, and he’d hardly felt that was worth the wear it would cause their spears to take it. Some had spoken for him, but far more against him, and in the end he’d been surprised to find they would let him live. He still wasn’t certain they’d made the right choice.
Now, the afternoon after his attempt to save the broga, Pathius waited once again in the gathering place where he’d first seen the Raeswa. Ara had brought him there, telling him there was someone who wished to see him. Something in her demeanor had kept him from asking who it was. He got the sense that she either didn’t know or wouldn’t tell him. She’d led him in silence to the empty room, open to the sky with widening circles of benches surrounding the center. Based on their destination, he’d assumed it was the Raeswa who wished to speak with him, but Ara had left without a word, the chamber still empty, and none of the Imaran elders in sight. He began to think he might have been wrong, and someone else entirely had requested his presence.
“Hello, Pathius.”
Something in the strong voice behind him made his heart race. He glanced over his shoulder to find Rogan standing in the entrance.
The King of Halthas looked the part. He was of a height with Pathius, with a strong bearing and a set to his shoulders that reminded Pathius of his father. Rogan’s dark hair was cropped short, his beard carefully trimmed, and, although his clothes were simple, no one would mistake him for less than his title implied.
My father would have love
d Rogan, had he been his son. He appears to be everything a king should be.
Pathius breathed through a surge of jealousy at seeing the king. He’d once vowed to face Rogan and kill him, but the road he’d traveled to become an unchained prisoner in a foreign land had altered his outlook.
“This is unexpected,” Pathius said as he turned. “Come to check in on the prisoner?”
“More or less, yes,” Rogan said and took a few steps into the chamber. “It bears mentioning that we aren’t as alone as it would seem.”
Pathius’s eyes flicked around the room. “Naturally. I’ve grown so used to their hovering eyes and threatening spears, I scarcely notice them anymore.”
Rogan pressed his lips together and nodded.
“Why are you here?” Pathius asked. There seemed little reason to dance around the point.
“Forthright. I appreciate that,” Rogan said. “I needed to see you and speak to you myself. Ever since news of your reappearance surfaced, I’ve only received word secondhand. I’ve heard the rumors and been privy to some of the truth. But I felt it was time that you and I faced each other.”
“Time to take the measure of the man?” Pathius asked.
“Something like that,” Rogan said. “For those who know you are alive, the question has been, what will Rogan do about it?”
“And what will he do?”
“To be truthful, I don’t know,” Rogan said and looked away as he paused. “I live under the specter of your father’s reign, and I daresay we both know what he would have done. But I’m not Hadran. I don’t wish for my throne to be covered in blood.”
“Thrones are never clean,” Pathius said. “A King has to make choices that no one else is willing to make.”
“I know how true that is,” Rogan said. Was there a note of remorse in his voice? “I don’t want to regret the choices I have made in regard to you.”
“What is it you want from me?” Pathius asked. “Assurances that I won’t cause trouble if they ever let me leave this place? That I’ll accept you on my father’s throne?”
