Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  The Knights of Esthrane, said the Wraith Lord. I called to them, and they have come.

  Penhallow gave a cry of triumph as he landed a killing blow, dispatching one of the two fighters he battled. The Wraith Lord, having killed his own opponents, pivoted to attack the second man fighting Penhallow.

  “Have a care with that body!” Penhallow commented. “I want him back when this is over.”

  So do I, Connor thought. Yet as the Wraith Lord animated his form with the dexterity of a consummate fighter, part of Connor yearned for the same level of strength and grace. He wondered how much of the Wraith Lord’s power was shielding him from pain and fatigue. His body was bleeding from several gashes, and under normal circumstances, Connor was quite certain he would have faltered from sheer exhaustion.

  Is this what it is to be a god? Connor wondered.

  Not a god, came the answer in his mind, in the voice of the Wraith Lord. But much more than mortal.

  The Wraith Lord’s attention was fixed on striking down as many of Reese’s soldiers as he could, working together with Penhallow to harry and kill as a team. Connor watched in awe as the Knights battled their way through the chaos like an efficient killing machine. Dispassionate, swift, and deadly, the Knights easily turned the tide of the conflict.

  Connor’s heart thudded with the adrenaline of the fight. The Wraith Lord’s exhilaration was as heady as the strongest whiskey, deadening the pain of Connor’s injuries and the weariness that only now began to make itself known at the edges of his consciousness. Everything seemed to be moving very quickly, and he was flushed with the exertion of battle, so that his hair hung wet with sweat around his face and his shirt beneath the cloak clung to his body.

  The leader of the Knights stared at Penhallow, then looked around, searching the faces of those still standing. “I was summoned by the Wraith Lord,” he said.

  “And I am here,” the Wraith Lord answered in Connor’s voice.

  “M’lord?”

  Connor smiled stiffly. “I borrowed this form out of necessity.”

  “And it is time for you to give it back,” Penhallow said quietly. “Before you burn it up.”

  The Wraith Lord sighed. “You cannot understand what it is like to feel once more, to grip a sword, to touch something and have it be solid to my hand.”

  “Kierken, it is time.”

  The Wraith Lord nodded. “I know.” He paused. “Take him back to my home tonight. The Knights will protect you. Your man will need medical attention, and you will need a place to go to ground, because dawn is not far off.”

  He paused again, longer this time. “When you came, my intent was to remain neutral. Now that I see Reese’s treachery, I will give you what aid I can – and something more.” He was silent for a moment. “I believe you will need my disk – and all the other disks – to raise the magic. I will show you its hiding place.”

  “Thank you,” Penhallow replied.

  Connor realized that it was growing difficult for him to breathe. What he had first taken as the flush of battle now felt like a raging fever, and his heart beat so rapidly that he felt as if he would lose consciousness. Throughout the battle, the Wraith Lord’s consciousness had calmed him, but now sheer primal panic threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Let him go, Kierken. He’ll die if you stay longer,” Penhallow said, his voice sharp.

  “As you wish. Thank him for me, if he survives.”

  As abruptly as the Wraith Lord had seized possession, he was gone. Pain, confusion, and exhaustion overwhelmed Connor and he sank to the ground, barely clinging to consciousness. Penhallow caught him and lifted him as easily as if he were a child. Connor’s head lolled, and he stared at the night sky as darkness threatened to blot out the stars in his field of vision.

  There was a rush of air, and the stars were gone. A shaft of moonlight barely illuminated the small room through the open door, but all Connor could see was a stone ceiling. The room smelled of mold, of decaying leaves, and of long disuse. Penhallow laid Connor on a stone slab. Distantly, Connor could hear Penhallow giving orders to the Knights who had accompanied them, then he felt Penhallow beside him once more.

  “Hang on, Connor,” Penhallow murmured. Connor could feel Penhallow’s presence and will strengthening him and keeping him from losing consciousness. Somehow, Connor knew that if the darkness took him now, he would not awaken.

  He felt Penhallow rip away his tattered and stained cloak, then remove the torn, blood-soaked shirt. “Look at me, Connor,” Penhallow said, his voice sounding with the strongest compulsion Connor had ever felt.

  Connor managed to open his eyes, but he lacked the strength to turn his head. Penhallow moved into his field of view and met his gaze. “Feel no fear. Feel no pain. Trust me completely, and you will live.”

  Connor let himself be carried by the dark tide of the compulsion, with no will or strength left to resist. He felt Penhallow’s hands press against his wounds, and then the heat and now-familiar burn of Penhallow’s healing saliva. Connor could hear Penhallow cursing under his breath, and yet he felt more curious than alarmed.

  “Bevin, listen to me. Even with my saliva and blood, your body is healing too slowly to save your life. I need you to take my blood, or you’ll die.”

  It took all of Connor’s will to force the words from his lips, and even so, he had barely enough breath to voice them. “Don’t turn me.”

  “I’m not going to turn you, Bevin. You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re badly wounded, but I will not turn you. I swear it. The kruvgaldur can still heal you, but it needs more blood to do so,” Penhallow said. There was a moment’s pause, and then Connor felt cold flesh pressing against his lips.

  “Take the blood, Bevin. You’ll still be mortal, I swear to you. If you don’t take the blood, you’ll die.”

  Cool ichor slipped between Connor’s lips, trickling into his mouth. Penhallow cursed once more and removed his wrist, and when it returned the flow of blood was stronger, flowing in a steady stream. The ichor that passed for Penhallow’s blood had none of the coppery tang of human blood. It had a sharp, bitter taste, devoid of life yet filled with the power of the talishte bond.

  Connor’s heart had slowed from its rapid pace during the battle. Now, his heartbeat was sluggish. Every muscle and bone seemed too heavy to move. He was colder than he had ever been, even in his brief time on Edgeland. This time, the cold seemed to be in his very bones. Connor felt the darkness begin to enfold him when a silver point of light forced itself into his consciousness.

  I forbid you to die, Bevin. Fight the darkness. The voice was the Wraith Lord’s, and a dim memory surfaced: Kierken Vandholt had been banished to the Unseen Realms, the place between the living and the dead. Connor could feel the Wraith Lord’s presence, but unlike on the battlefield, the voice sounded near him, not inside his own skull.

  The pinpoint of light burned brilliantly, driving back the shadows. Connor clung to the silver glow like a lifeline. He was excruciatingly aware of every intake and exhale of breath, of his struggling heartbeat, of the blood coursing in his veins. Every sensation was heightened, as if Penhallow had overridden his dying brain to assure that Connor’s body did not fail him.

  Slowly, very slowly, the darkness began to dissipate. Connor’s heartbeat, which had labored to keep a stuttering rhythm, gradually grew more regular. Breath came easier, so that the rising and falling of his chest did not seem to be a strain beyond endurance. The bitter cold receded. The silver light never faltered, nor did the sense that Penhallow and the Wraith Lord were constant presences, both in the physical realm and in the gray place between life and death.

  Connor drew a shuddering breath. He grew more aware of the solid body that encased his consciousness. His fingers twitched, a feeble attempt to prove to himself that his body had returned to his volition. The honeyed warmth of Penhallow’s compulsion receded, and for the first time since the battle, Connor felt the throb of overtaxed muscles and the pain of bruised and bro
ken bones. The pain made him flinch, reassuring him that he was still among the living.

  Connor’s sense of the Wraith Lord’s presence, and the silver light, faded. For the first time since Penhallow had placed his broken body on the stone slab, Connor felt the cold granite beneath him. A cool hand rested gently on his shoulder.

  “You’ll live,” Penhallow said in a ragged voice. “Now, I must feed. Rest. When you awaken, your healing will be complete.”

  Connor tried to murmur thanks, but his body would not obey his command. He listened to the sound of his breath and heartbeat, comforted in their assurance that he would wake from the darkness that claimed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “O

  h, I have so many questions for you!” Treven Lowrey rubbed his hands together gleefully, staring at the man in the uniform of the Knights of Esthrane.

  “Focus, Treven,” Penhallow said. “The important information first, then you can research to your heart’s desire.”

  “Piffle,” Lowrey groused. “All well and good for you – you live for hundreds of years, so you see history unfold on a scale the rest of us can’t imagine. You don’t understand how fascinating it is to actually have the actual Knights here, close enough to touch —”

  “It would be better if you didn’t do that,” the Knight said, and Lowrey hastily withdrew his hand from the Knight’s arm.

  “Please excuse my associate,” Penhallow chuckled. “He’s a scholar, and his love of history sometimes cancels out his common sense.”

  Lowrey grimaced. “Oh really? Who had the common sense to stay safely inside a fortress instead of traipsing around, making a target of myself?”

  Penhallow, Lowrey, Connor, and the leader of the Knights of Esthrane, a talishte named Nidhud, stood in the hidden library room beneath Quillarth Castle. Nidhud was a stocky man who stood no taller than Connor but was twice as broad. His black hair was cut in a fashion Connor had seen only in old tapestries, and his armor, though of the highest quality, was likewise of a style several generations old. Nidhud’s dark eyes had the cold, flinty gaze of a seasoned warrior, and his hands were covered with battle scars, telling Connor that even before Nidhud had been turned, he had been a man of war.

  “While you and Connor have been out brawling, I’ve uncovered important information, and I’m betting Nidhud can fill in the parts I couldn’t piece together from the record,” Lowrey said with a smug smile.

  Connor and Penhallow had returned the previous night, accompanied by a half dozen of the Knights for protection, thanks to the Wraith Lord. Lars Lynge and Lowrey had listened with rapt attention as they told the story of the adventures that had befallen them since they left the castle. Lowrey had promised them an equally adventurous tale for the next evening, and they gathered after supper with Lowrey adoring his place at the center of attention.

  “We suspected Vigus Quintrel had been dropping bread crumbs for us to follow,” Lowrey said. “He’s left us a trail in the form of hidden clues, as well as buried memories locked in Connor’s mind. But after days and sleepless nights of scholarly research, pushing myself nearly to the breaking point, I believe I have finally unlocked the code,” he said triumphantly.

  “Enough self-congratulation, Treven,” Penhallow said. “We all know you’re a very, very clever fellow. Now – what did you find?”

  Lowrey was excited enough about his breakthrough to completely ignore Penhallow’s comment. “Look, look – it’s all here. I made a copy of Connor’s map, and I’ve been studying it against the maps in the Knights’ library.”

  In their absence, the small hidden library had been completely transformed. Lowrey had constructed moveable wooden frames to which he had tacked up his notes, map, and drawings, using different colored thread to point out relationships among the various pieces. Tables and chairs had been moved to allow for a wider working area, and on the largest table, Lowrey had laid out more maps and notes along with piles of manuscripts, an astrolabe, and a sextant. The library now reminded Connor of a war room, and Lowrey strode back and forth in front of his diagrams with the enthusiasm of a confident general.

  “I’m certain that Vigus Quintrel believed there was a correlation between the location of the wells and deserts of natural magical power, the nodes, and the constellations,” Lowrey said excitedly. “The map Connor stole for you the night of the Great Fire shows the nodes of power and no-power here on the Continent. Good enough – so far,” he said and moved animatedly to display another drawing.

  “Look here. I’ve overlaid my copy of Connor’s map of the nodes with a star chart of the constellations,” Lowrey said. “And I’ve marked the location of the great manor houses of the first thirteen Lords of the Blood, the ones who raised the magic at Mirdalur. They correspond to the nodes, and to the constellations.”

  “Yes, yes, Treven! But what does it all mean?” Penhallow said. “It’s all terribly interesting, but unless we can find Quintrel or figure out the best location for Blaine to attempt to raise the magic, it’s all rather useless.”

  “Useless!” Lowrey sputtered. “No research is ever useless. Some pieces are just more timely than others.” He straightened to his full height. “And I’ve discovered some important information.”

  “Remember, Treven, if you draw this out too long, I might be tempted to just nip you and get the answers out of your blood,” Penhallow warned, although the corner of his mouth quirked as he fought back a smile.

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “I might.” Nidhud stood near the doorway with his arms crossed across his chest. “Get on with it.”

  Lowrey gave an uncertain glance in Nidhud’s direction, then regained his confidence. “As I was saying, I’ve discovered some items of importance. First, I’ve worked out a connection between the outbreaks of madness and the wild magic.”

  Connor perked up at that. “And?”

  “Lynge was able to help me talk with nearly three dozen people near the castle who had a friend or family member succumb to the madness,” Lowrey said. “Here’s the thing: None of the people who have gone mad – as far as we can tell – were mages or talishte. They either had a very small bit of magic, or none at all.”

  Penhallow leaned forward and tented his fingers as he thought. “Interesting. I might have thought that those with the most magic would feel the absence the keenest.”

  “That’s what I thought, going into it,” Lowrey said, his head bobbing up and down. “And since a different sort of power animates the talishte and your kruvgaldur bond has remained in place when the other magic failed, I thought that there might be madness cropping up among the vampires due to the strain. But that’s not what happened.”

  Lowrey’s eyes glinted with excitement. “Do you realize what that means?”

  “The longer we go without finding a way to bring back the magic, the more we are at risk of being overrun by mobs of crazed villagers,” Nidhud replied. “We already knew that.”

  “The rate of new incidents seems to be accelerating,” Lowrey added. “When the magic first failed, there were no reports of madness. Within a few weeks, several cases appeared. To the best of my ability to connect the dots, the more time passes, the more people are affected.”

  “Another reason why we must resolve this as quickly as possible,” Penhallow agreed.

  “Here’s my second discovery,” Lowrey said, with a look toward Nidhud. “I also interviewed as many of the guards as I could. From their experience, the monsters are spawning most often in the places that are between the nodes and deserts. From what I could piece together from Quintrel’s journal and the manuscripts in the library, the tension between the null places and the out-of-control wells of power actually rip apart the veil between our world and the places of the gods, allowing creatures to come through that have no business among mortals.”

  Lowrey leaned forward. “But here’s the most important thing. I was wrong.”

  “You, Treven? Mistaken?” Penhallow clucked
his tongue, and Connor stifled a laugh.

  Lowrey grimaced. “It has been known to happen,” he said in a dry tone. “I was wrong about the best time to try to restore the magic. It isn’t the spring equinox. The most powerful times are the solstices – and we’re only a few weeks away from the winter solstice.”

  Penhallow and Nidhud exchanged glances. “How much of a difference do you think the timing makes?” Penhallow asked.

  Lowrey shrugged. “Enough for Quintrel to make note of it. The men at Mirdalur raised the magic at the summer solstice. I found a chart where Quintrel used what he found in old inscriptions, manuscript fragments, and mage journals to estimate when the magic has risen and fallen before, at least the times that he could document. Five hundred years ago, the magic fell. It was a hundred years before it was restored – at Mirdalur – on the summer solstice,” he added.