Too much was happening too fast, but no way existed to slow time’s progress. She would deal with each new issue as she thought best.
“There is much I need to tell you,” Galiana said at last when they approached the entrance to the Whitewater Inn.
“Would any of it make a difference?”
“Sometimes the truth we see is not the truth but what we want to see.”
A stableman helped Galiana down from her mount. He passed her staff, and she took it gratefully. The promised warmth within the inn beckoned to her as Irmina dismounted with ease and led the way. Back bent, Galiana followed.
Irmina pushed open the door, and held it long enough for Galiana to enter. The inn’s interior was a welcome respite to the frigid temperature outside. Lamps lit the foyer in reddish hues, the effect from painted shades covering each. Two tables and a long bench sat against one wall and directly across from it was the service desk. The tinkle of music and laughter drifted in from the closed doors across the hall.
Guthrie Bemelle’s head rose from the table where he wolfed down a meal. His eyes widened, and his round jaws and hanging jowls stopped working. He pushed away from the table, his protruding belly bumping against its edge as he stood. “I–Irmina Nagel?” he sputtered, food showing in his mouth.
“Master Bemelle,” Irmina said with a slight nod.
“It’s Shin Irmina or Shin Nagel now,” Galiana corrected. “According to which she prefers.” A tightening of Irmina’s hand brought a slight twitch to Galiana’s lips.
“Shin Irmina will do.”
The way the young woman covered her surprise with a smooth answer made Galiana tip her head. Well trained as she expected.
“I–I’m sorry,” Guthrie said, smoothing his dirty apron. “Shin Irmina.” He swallowed. “I’m guessing you’re in need of a room?”
“Yes, unless someone wishes to take me to Jillian’s home until she returns.”
Guthrie glanced at Galiana then made a show of collecting his dish and cup from the table.
“Well?” Irmina’s gaze shifted from Galiana to Guthrie.
“Your aunt will not be coming back,” Galiana said. She’d wanted to wait to reveal this.
“So she finally had enough of your deceit then,” Irmina said under her breath.
Guthrie’s head snapped up. His glass clattered to the floor. In order to retrieve it, he needed to get down on his knees. Keeping the half-full plate in his hand made this even more difficult, but finally he managed to pick up the glass. He bowed several times to the two of them then waddled over to his desk and placed his dishes down. The next few moments he spent flipping through the pages of his log book, presumably looking for a room in which to place Irmina. Sweat beaded his forehead.
“In answer to what you said, and since you asked after her again …” Galiana shed her cloak and fur jacket and hung them on a rack near the door. “No. She volunteered to escort the children, the elderly, and those who did not wish to be here, to safety in Torandil.”
“I doubt that’ll be far enough for any of you,” Irmina said.
“One moment, Shin Galiana, Shin Irmina,” Guthrie said. “Rolt!” he yelled.
Galiana noted the lack of Irmina’s reaction to Guthrie referring to her as an Ashishin instead of a Teacher.
A muffled answer issued from somewhere past the wide door beyond the foyer.
“Get in here. Now!”
Guthrie’s interruption to call for his nighttime helper broke some of the tension. Galiana nodded her gratitude to the innkeeper, and he responded in kind.
The interior door opened and Rolt shuffled in. He hurried over to them, dipping his head continuously as he took Irmina’s fur-lined overcoat and hung it on the rack.
“Take them to the suite,” Guthrie said. “Also, don’t forget to clean up the mess from their boots when you’re done. Then head to … Master Rowan’s stables?” Galiana nodded and he continued, “To collect her things from her horse. Oh, and tell Selise to prepare the dinner special. I’m sure Shin Irmina must be hungry.”
Rolt’s head bobbed even harder to the pronouncement of Irmina’s title. “This way Shin Irmina, Shin Galiana.” He led them across the polished wood floors and into the next room.
They entered the serving hall. Several heads shifted in their direction. Within moments, the laughter and music within drifted to silence. Chairs scraped as the patrons stood. Bows and the murmurs of Blessed Shin followed. This time, Irmina’s eyebrow arched, but she said nothing.
Rolt shuffled over in his bent back walk and made his way to a pretty, blond serving girl. He whispered in her ear. With each word, her eyes grew wider and wider. When he finished, she hurried over to Miss Carina, the cook, and passed on instructions. Miss Carina’s reaction was to look at Irmina, shake her head in disapproval, and walk toward the kitchen.
When Rolt returned, he led them up the four flights of stairs to the suite on the top floor. Below them, the music and laughter resumed. Rolt treated them as if they’d never been in the Whitewater Inn before, showing them the large bed, the sitting room, and the enamel bath tub, all the while mentioning the softness and warmth of the carpet beneath their feet in comparison to the cold, hardness of the polished wood floors. Lastly, he pointed out the windows and the sweeping view of Eldanhill’s eastern side, the Kelvore River, its namesake mountains and the mists that hid the towering Whitewater Falls.
Galiana thanked Rolt and escorted him out. She turned from the closed door, to find Irmina staring at her, jaws grinding.
“How could you have allowed it all to happen?”
Shoulders sagging, Galiana sighed. Only one topic could cause the combination of pain and anger written on Irmina’s face. “We did what we could to stop Nerian.”
“No,” Irmina said, “no excuses. Yes, Nerian gave the original orders to kill my family, but the Dorns didn’t have to carry out the command. Why did they still continue even years after Nerian was gone? Why take my parents from me? Why?” Tears welled up in her eyes.
Mouth agape, Galiana forgot to lean on her staff. She stood straight and stiff and the gnarled wood fell from her fingers.
Irmina’s eyes became flinty pinpoints and a sneer twisted her otherwise beautiful features. “Yes,” she hissed. “I know all about them and you. You did nothing to help. Neither did the other council members.” Her voice rose. “You,” she pointed, “are as guilty as Nerian for the lives he took.” Her body trembled with those last words. A tear trickled down one cheek. “To make it worse, you let the Dorns take me in,” she whispered, “raise me as their own while I grieved for my parents. The very ones who had them killed. I–I grew to love them as I once loved my own mother and father. Then they had Ancel, and … and …”
Galiana wanted to go to her, to console her, hug her. Poor child, how you must have suffered, losing not one love but three.
“You were supposed to be an Ashishin.” Irmina wiped the tears away, and her face grew blank. She spoke with a level tone, emotionless as a brick. “A guiding light out from the darkness, a servant to those in need, but you spread as much or more evil and death as Nerian. You allowed the Dorns to take all from me that ever mattered. How many years have you led people down your own path, used Manipulation on them? Centuries?
“Yes. I’m aware of that too. Your Forging with the kinai. How the council extends their lives so they can continue to live while my family and countless others have perished. How you use the wine and the juice especially at Soltide to infuse people across the land with sela essences. Then you leech that power from them. I’ve tapped into it once, felt it ripple through me. The Streamean temple is more than a temple isn’t it? The same as the Mysteras are more than schools. They are the focal points for your Forge. Great divya from which you tap into the pool of life within sela essences to extend your own existence.”
Galiana stumbled to the bed and sat. By the gods, Irmina knew so much, but from her accusing eyes, she lacked what she needed: the true reasons behin
d the council’s decisions.
Shin Irmina continued. “Now, you should also know the Tribunal is aware of your actions.” A mirthless smile split her lips.
“Poor child,” Galiana said gently. “The Tribunal has always known, Raijin Irmina.” The young woman sucked in a breath. “It’s why we still live. Why they allowed the Setian to live. They placed us here in Eldanhill. They allowed us to open all the other Mysteras.”
“Y-You lie.”
Galiana didn’t know if to laugh, feel pity or be angry at her. “No need for me to lie now. We tried as best we could to save you and many of the others from all this. Myself, the council, and the Dorns, chose to bear the brunt of what had to be done for our people survive. As an Ashishin, you’ve impersonated a Devout, spread the word of Streamean worship with promises of safe haven and prosperity in Granadia. All the while you scouted those villages and sent back word to the Tribunal.”
Shock still written on her face, Irmina nodded numbly.
“Those towns and villages in Ostania were plundered for the wealth of sela available there. The Ashishin and Devout were the spearheads of the Tribunal’s raids against Ostania. Oh, the actual attackers would be bandits, slavers, or members of one kingdom attacking another, but they served one purpose. To kill. In each instance, Tribunal leaders and the Exalted were there to reap the benefits of the deaths. To take sela and use it to extend their own lives.”
“That cannot be,” Irmina whispered, but from the look in her eyes, Galiana suspected the woman realized the truth of her words.
“The Setian people were one such, but we had more than sela. We possessed the Forging using kinai you mentioned. We did not need to take lives to extend our own. One among us had a Gift. As your Gift is being a beasttamer, Thania Dorn’s Gift was to be one of the few Matii able to Forge sela itself.”
“Thania? Forging sela? But that’s supposed to be near impossible. One would have to be as strong as one of the Exalted to …” Her eyes shot open as she understood her implication.
“Yes. She is or was. And it seems much of her power passed to her son.”
“Ancel?”
“The Tribunal members are not the only ones who sought the power we had. So did Amuni’s followers. They needed the Gift to continue in their search for a way to break or weaken the seals on the Nether. To allow their kind to breach the Kassite’s wards, cross over from Hydae and envelop our lands. With promises of power and returning Ostania to its former glory, they convinced Nerian to side with them. Others were corrupted by those promises and the first taste of power they received. Many from within your family.”
“No,” Irmina whispered. “No … No … No, that’s not true. My family, my parents were not of the shade.”
“Some were not,” Galiana said. “After the first few were revealed, starting with your ancestor Garrick Nagel, there was no stopping the retaliation. We possessed limited ways in which to tell who were shadelings and who were not. Word reached those opposing Nerian and much of your family perished. Others who were pure and refused the Shadowbearer, he had them executed. He blamed those killings on Stefan and his men because they rebelled. Indeed, Stefan did give the order to have your parents killed, but only after the shade’s influence turned them. They helped plot attacks on Ostanian towns. When we discovered they knew where in Granadia we’d fled to, we were forced to act.”
Galiana allowed silence to settle over the room then, giving Irmina a chance to ponder her words. She could imagine the woman’s life flitting before her eyes as she remembered all she’d been through. Whether she would recognize the truth was another story. For both their sakes, Galiana hoped she did. She would hate to have to kill Irmina.
Finally, Irmina said, “What’s High Shin Jerem’s part in all this.”
The question took Galiana by surprise, but she smiled all the same. Except for the trail from the earlier tears, Irmina’s face was now serene. She exhibited rare emotional control for so young a Matus.
“Well?”
“High Shin Jerem is one of us. He is Setian.”
“Why didn’t he tell me? I’m loyal to him. I’ve always been.” The hurt on Irmina’s face was plain.
Galiana shrugged. “Who knows?” She could only guess at the conflict warring with Irmina. “Jerem is as mysterious to me sometimes as he appears to you and just as confusing. I have not heard from him since he informed me you would be on your way here.”
Irmina’s brow furrowed. “Did he say why?”
“No. All he said was to prepare myself to receive you at some point.”
“That’s like him too. Hints of guidance without saying exactly what he wishes,” Irmina sighed. “What’s with the Dosteri and the mountain clans? No one mentioned them in all this confusion with Sendeth, Barson, and whomever else rising against the Tribunal.”
“Their presence is still a mystery to me,” Galiana admitted. “It was Stefan’s doing. He apparently owed a debt to the Dosteri.” Now wasn’t a good time to mention what the Chronicles said about them. “How or why he has not said. The mountain tribes needed little excuse to attack the Sendethi army. One of its Knight Captains decided to make demands in the name of the king.”
“Did they allow him to keep his head?”
“They were too embroiled in one of their feuds at the time to turn their attentions on him. However, when they found shadelings within the Greenleaf Woods, they were more than willing to help. Soon after came the battle for Eldanhill. The man in command of the shade also controlled the Sendethi, but that is not the worst of it.” Galiana took a deep breath. “As strong as Thania was, he defeated her. He took her and Materialized. We have no idea where they went.”
“Yes, I heard. How’s Stefan and Ancel taking it?”
“Not well. Stefan is bad enough. Ancel is worse. He already was not handling your departure well. In some ways, this crisis saved him from the pain you two had. It was either get over you or die. You see, the shade was also hunting Ancel.”
Irmina clasped her hands on her lap. “Hunting him? Why?”
“For his mother’s power, but that is not all,” Galiana added. “He is so strong a netherling breached the Kassite and crossed over to our world. It imbued something into Ancel. Strange tattoos covering one arm and part of his chest.”
“Ryne!” Irmina exclaimed.
Galiana opened her mouth then snapped it shut.
Chapter 13
Across the area now free of snow and slush, Ancel tapped his foot impatiently. He’d wanted to use one of the other training spaces, but the bushy-faced giant opposite him insisted on clearing his own, stating he needed the work to warm his body. How did someone warm themselves in tight leathers with their arms exposed? In this weather?
Almost every Weaponmaster and student had stopped their sessions to crowd around the training area. Most hunkered down within thick furs and cloaks, their hushed murmurs spreading through the gathering, quiet anticipation hanging in the air. Ancel wished Galiana or his father was present, but another matter had their attention. Some Ashishin had showed up the previous night, and the council gathered in discussions with her.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Ryne called out.
The spectators quieted.
Wooden longsword held before him, Ancel began to circle Ryne with smooth, sure strides. Battle energy ran through him in warm tingles as he moved. One foot stepped next to the other but never overlapped. Underneath his thick leather armor, the life-like sculpted pendant of his mother rested flat against his chest. He wished she could be here also. Ancel took a breath, trying to push away both the thought and the accompanying emotional surge. He sought the Eye, embracing its calmness.
“Ah, so you know how to find the Shunyata. Good.” Unconcernedly, Ryne flipped a wooden replica of a greatsword from hand to hand, the weapon more like a twig in his grasp.
Ancel’s heart skipped a beat at the name. Kachien used the same word to describe a similar skill among her people. Hands steady as he cir
cled, he fixed his gaze over his weapon’s tip and upon his opponent, hoping to imitate Ryne’s calm disposition.
Two more steps to the right, and Ancel changed direction. Muddy earth squelched beneath his feet. He braced himself, focusing on Ryne’s chest in a fruitless effort to ignore the artwork on the man’s thick, oak-branch arms. Without warning, those Etchings shifted. Ancel gave in to his battle energy and darted in, attacking with a three-strike move.
As he parried the first two blows, Ryne’s eyes widened. The contact vibrated through Ancel’s hands as Ryne dropped backward, his body arched a foot or two above the ground, but neither sword nor hand touching the soggy, rust-colored dirt. The maneuver seemed impossible for a man so large.
The third blow, aimed for Ryne’s torso, whiffed through empty air. Ryne sprung up as the slice passed by, propelling his body over Ancel in a graceful flip.
Off balance, Ancel attempted to pivot, but his knee twisted under him. He stumbled forward. Before he fell, he jarred to a stop.
Ryne’s iron fingers dug into his bare shoulder and held him upright. The greatsword tapped Ancel’s neck.
Gasps and a smattering of claps burst from the throng.
“I saw your move,” Ancel said, breathing hard but still beaming with pride as Ryne released him.
Ryne shook his head and wagged a finger thicker than two of Ancel’s. “Seeing the move isn’t enough. Find a way to counter.”
Ancel nodded.
They assumed identical positions and began anew. This time Ancel attacked swiftly, alternating blows from every position, going through the basics to the more advanced Styles his father had taught him over the past months. Not once did he pierce Ryne’s guard or come close to touching him. Each time the fight ended with a gentle tap of Ryne’s sword. Sweating profusely despite the cold, chest, legs, and arms burning, Ancel almost went down on one knee. Ryne called for a halt.
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