by Danie Ware
What Rhan could see was not an army. It had no artillery and very little horse, and much of its allegiance was carried on the immediate winds of pure and vocal charm.
Thank the Gods, Rhan thought, that he was not actually in command.
* * *
Tan Commander Mostak faced his mustered force.
His back was to Rhan, to the Palace and the balcony. He stood rigid, seeming to burn with vehemence in the cold air, as though he could make his warriors follow him by sheer force of will. With him was his command unit – herald, drummer, flag bearer, personal guard – all of them in laminated terhnwood and bearing the Valiembor sigil.
Only Mostak’s own armour was different. It was older in styling, had belonged to the First Lord Foundersson Tekissari, and it was ever so slightly too big for him. The irony of that realisation had not been lost on anyone.
This is all madness, Seneschal. Mostak’s last words to Rhan had been like a warning, a barbed reminder of what he’d once said in the Council. You and that damned storyteller…
But Mostak, perhaps even more so than Rhan, understood Nivrotar’s strategy, and the necessity of the gamble they played.
Whatever it was going to cost them.
* * *
Over the ramshackle force, a glint of sunlight penetrated the heavy clouds. It caught the tips of a thousand upright terhnwood spears, flaring them to life like torches. Like hope.
Rhan caught his breath, the thought coalescing out of the light…
Calarinde, Lady…
But the Gods were not listening.
Am I the daemon, Rhan?
Below him, Mostak raised a hand. His voice cracked, sharp and echoing, “Listen up… Stand!”
The scruff of assembled tan came to upright stance with a single, unified click.
Their discipline eased Rhan’s breathing, allowed him to uncurl somewhat, somehow giving him confidence in this whole crazed undertaking.
Then, from behind him, came Brother Mael’s voice. “Please don’t do this.”
Not taking his gaze from the force below, Rhan said, “Did you leave any horses?”
Mael gave a short sigh. “No horses or chearl left in the city – other than with Ythalla. You can herd what you can’t ride; they’re tacked up for portage. Well, most of them.” He gave an odd, sad smile. “We’ve been through the records, everything Scythe told us – we think we’ve tracked all of Phylos’s remaining hoardings. If you can’t carry it, and the Cathedral can’t take it, it’s gone up in flames.”
Flames.
Then there’s really nothing left.
The thought almost made him stagger. Nothing left. Then he took a breath and said the words he hadn’t wanted to say, the final tolling of the city’s death bell. “Then please bring my Lord Selana to the balcony. When this is done…” He swallowed, grief and complex dishonesty. “She should be free. We should all be free.”
Free.
The word was bitter, a slap to the cheek like an insult. Mael watched him for a minute in a final plea, begging him to relent, but Rhan said nothing.
The old scribe slumped, shaking his head, and turned away.
Rhan returned to the shattered mosaic, to the shadow in his own thoughts. Four hundred returns, my estavah, and I yield my family, and my city. But victorious though you might be, you know you don’t dare let me live.
Come and get me. Come and get me and tear me to pieces.
As if the Gods bore witness, the great drum in the Cathedral tower began to thunder, the sound defiant. Rhan couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard it. At the edge of the mosaic the building’s great doors stood open – he could see Gorinel, and with him the slight form of Amethea. They’d taken what was left of the city’s populace into the depths of the building’s crypts, taken the last few helpers at the hospice and whatever supplies had not been loaded or burned. Leaving the people here was a risk, but a necessary one – the fighters had to have speed.
He’ll come straight after me, Rhan had said to the old priest. Chasing you through the catacombs could take cycles – he hasn’t got enough trained forces to spare. Once the city’s quiet, perhaps you can come out…
Perhaps.
The drum boomed, like a dare. And now, Rhan had one last thing to do, one last manoeuvre before his abandonment of his city was complete…
Mael came back onto the balcony, Valicia at his side.
And with them was Selana Valiembor, last Lord of Fhaveon.
The sight of the girl, haunted and shadow-eyed, nearly made Rhan’s knees fold. He wanted to speak to her, to beg her exoneration, but he had no words for what he was about to do.
She was pale, her face dark with figments. Her eyes jumped from place to place; she shrank from Rhan as though he’d slapped her. Mael held her upright, his hands gentle. He’d removed his glasses as if his old face fought not to crumple round them.
Finding his last reserves of courage, Rhan gestured at the balcony.
“You should speak, my Lord. The city awaits your voice.”
The Cathedral’s drum stopped, the silence was huge.
Selana raised her head, blinked at him. There were marks on her skin, like scars. Perhaps he was imagining them?
“Speak?” she asked. “Why… why didn’t you say…?”
Her voice was soft, afraid. Rhan’s heart began to tremble – maybe he was wrong, maybe she was just the young Lord of the city, maybe this mad endeavour would all end right here—
“I told you, my Lord, your final speech,” he said. “Make it a good one.”
Baffled, she turned to the balcony, to the warriors gathered below. The sun had risen further now and the mosaic glittered with the cold winter, its broken edges shattering the rising light. The horses were restive, shaking their heads against the terhnwood brackets that held the soft corners of their mouths, thumping wide, splayed hooves against the tiles. Their tack rattled and their breath steamed. The wind had risen, and the pennons on the spear-points were flapping now, agitated, the larger flags stirring to life. Mostak’s drummer sounded a blood-pulse tattoo, and silenced.
The sound, like the light, reflected in pieces from the walls.
Selana stepped forward, faltered, looked back. Rhan nodded, encouraging her, found he was holding his breath. Don’t let this be for nothing. A formless prayer, desperate.
Mael’s face was etched in pain.
“I…” She cleared her throat. “My… my people, people of Fhaveon!” Her voice was tiny in the morning air. “Heed me! Our final…” She stopped, started again, “Our final dawning is upon us!”
And a rich, dark voice in the shadows said, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
* * *
Rhan remembered.
A young man, Tundran and slender and burning with idealism, a starry-eyed fanatic who was going to change the world. The first Guardian born in Avesyr in numberless hundreds of returns, heralded as a hero, the saviour of his world and his people. He’d had a vision, he’d said, the Gods had spoken to him. He’d touched the very waters of the Ryll and the world’s thoughts had been shown to him, her greatest foe and fear…
Rhan had chuckled at the upstart’s presumption, fed him a goblet of the Cellen, and told him to calm the rhez down.
How many returns? Eighty? Ninety? Tundrans had a longer lifespan than Grassdwellers. Taught he was extraordinary in his earliest youth, Roderick had carried that conviction all down his returns. Beyond sanity, beyond the Ryll, beyond The Wanderer. Misguided arrogance or genuine vision, it had given him a sense of pure purpose that Rhan had always envied.
His own long returns had bled one into another like mud in water, become vague and pointless until he’d lost them and forgotten them…
Like he’d lost lovers, friends, family.
Stood beside him now, that starry-eyed youth was cold and savage, brutalised, damaged beyond all redemption – Samiel’s teeth, perhaps he’d lost even more than Rhan had done. Yet his conviction burned within him
still, tempered now, lethal, as cold as the waters of the Ryll itself, as the cutting-ice air of the Khavan Circle.
The Final Guardian.
The only one of his people remaining.
The man who’d been Roderick the Bard met Rhan’s eyes. For just a moment there was that shock of old recognition, so many returns of friendship – he was the Bard still, no matter what had been done to him – and then the moment was gone and the stranger with the metal throat turned away.
Mael was crying, a silent run of tears.
Rhan felt like joining him, wanted the comfort – but Selana was finding her voice now, talking to the people below.
“My friends – people of Fhaveon! This is a moment of history, a moment the Count of Time himself will hold to his heart. This is a moment my mothers, my fathers, never believed would come – but a moment in which we can take solace. We are not defeated, warriors, ladies, gentlemen – we still stand proud!”
The soldiers stood silent, watching her. In the Cathedral doorway, people surrounded Gorinel and Amethea, come to see the sunlight for the last time.
Rhan swallowed. I’ve got this wrong… oh Gods, I’ve got this wrong! What’ve I done?
He watched Selana, watched her face, her lips, the expression in her eyes.
Come on, show me, tell me I’m right… Tell me this isn’t for nothing!
But her voice was alight with love, her expression fervent. “This is the stone that was wrought by my forebears, by the hand of Saluvarith himself! This rock where we stand is immortal, and it cannot be defeated – not by man, and not by monster! As Tekissari once fought to defend Fhaveon, so we will return, my friends, my people – we will come back here with our blades aloft and our hearts afire, and we will take it back!”
Mostak’s drummer had begun again, his bass thump soft like the shivering rise of adrenaline. Mostak himself stood like a statue, as hard as the stone face of Rakanne herself, unwilling or unable to turn and look at the balcony.
And then Rhan heard the Bard.
“E Vahl Khavaghakke. E Vahl Sashar, yaedhkka, khava. Khavaghakke.”
The words were Tundran, cracking like ice. It was an older language than that of the Varchinde; Rhan knew “Khava” as a greeting, or a calling, but that was all.
He shivered.
He had no idea if Roderick’s newfound vocal strength was powerful enough for this. The Art of Summoning was primal, unused, mostly forgotten – something for fireside tales, not for the balcony of the Palace itself. But the Bard knew enough of the wording, and now had the strength to use it…
Rhan saw Selana shudder. He saw Valicia, her mother, start forwards, her hands to her mouth. He saw Mael turn away, shaking his head as if to free himself of all of this…
And then he saw the surge of ink through the young woman’s skin, the power pulse from her shoulders, rising like heat, blistering.
They were right.
By the Gods, Vahl was really in there!
Relief raged and the drum throbbed again, brief like a heartbeat; the sun gleamed from lines of lamellar armour as the ranks of warriors stood watching.
Selana trembled, teeth bared. She stood with her hands on the balcony’s edge, ink and heat and rage and power. She shuddered, cried out.
The Bard’s voice was thundering now, undeniable. “E Vahl Khavaghakke. E Vahl Sashar, yaedhkka, khava. Khavaghakke.” He stood like a streak of darkness, his face concealed, his words a pulse, a demand.
It called to Rhan too, to something dark in his very soul. It pulled at him, hurting, but he strove to ignore it.
The air twisted, struggled.
The girl’s face contorted, light and shadow, pain and terror and savage eagerness. Vahl’s presence burned. He was in there, Rhan could see his brother’s expression.
“E Vahl Khavaghakke!” Roderick was calling to the concealed creature, pulling him forth, daring him. And if it was hurting Rhan…
Selana spasmed. She started to turn to her protectors, asking them for help, for understanding. The look was the last one she ever gave, and it would haunt Rhan for the rest of his days.
“E Vahl—”
And everything happened at once.
Her skin tore, ragged and bloody rips in her face and arms. Steam poured from her, rose like morning mist. Valicia screamed, ran to her daughter, but Selana, laughing, backhanded her mother hard enough to stretch her on the stone floor.
She didn’t move again.
Vahl threw the game down, and he laughed though Selana’s mouth. His voice held that same double layer that had been heard in Phylos. It laughed at Roderick and his summoning, at Rhan and his horror, at Mael and his grief.
You’ve got me, it seemed to say to them, so what are going to do with me?
Below them, Rhan could hear movement, the tight discipline of the military wavering. He heard voices, demands, cries of alarm, panicked horses. He heard Mostak barking orders, heard the drum repeat them. He heard Gorinel – the old man had a boom like Samiel’s own. Gods alone knew what the people were thinking…
But they had to see this. They had to know the truth, the whole story – know who could be trusted to lead them. Their loyalty had to be absolute.
And then Selana spoke, and everything stopped dead.
“Oh well done, my brother. Well done indeed.” Her voice was Vahl’s – it reached every corner of the plaza below. The soldiers would know it; they’d heard it before, in Phylos, at the city’s ending. They would know what it meant.
The Count of Time had stopped utterly still.
Roderick’s expression was still as stone, his eyes compelled by Selana’s new stance and power. Mael stared as if at a figment, some nightmare from his artist’s imagination. His hands were shaking. Valicia lay like a tumbled statue, motionless.
Then Selana spoke again, and the instant shattered. “But in your rush, I think you’ve forgotten something.” The tears in her skin were closing, edges melting together like tallow in the steam, and Vahl was smiling with her face, his mouth somehow wider than hers. “Have you become so besotted with your mortal family that you forget your estavah, those with whom you were promised privilege until the end of the Count of Time?” The smile grew wider, showed teeth. “Samiel damned us all, little brother. Not just you and I.”
Rhan tensed, trembling.
Samiel damned us all.
Not just you and I.
That endless, shrieking plummet from Samiel’s halls, the cold, dark waters that had caught him. But the others…
Not just…
Roderick may not have been able to find them, but there were Kas on Rammouthe, as damned as Vahl had been and curled deep in the island’s belly. And they had been waiting long, waiting patient, waiting cold within their citadel of dark stone. Vahl was their eldest and their vanguard. They had forced him to reveal himself before his army had manifested – but manifest it would, and soon.
Not just you and I.
He knew them by their older names, the names Samiel had given them, and then taken away – Tamh Gabryl, Ghan Rafyl, others. And without them, Vahl was not ready.
Not ready – yet.
But Vahl had gathered in Selana’s skin, in her face – he was a writhe of ink, a smear of blood, a rise of smoke. He was manifest over her like some vast shadow. Now they could all see him.
The mosaic was utterly silent. Whatever tan had broken their ranks, they had stopped dead, transfixed by the tableau on the balcony.
By the thing that had brought the city to ruin, the thing that was even now in the skin of their Lord.
Vahl laughed, enough to make the clouds recoil. He turned on the Bard. “So – what now? You can summon me, Tundran, but can you expel me? Dismiss me? Are you some sage of old, wielding forgotten magicks?” Eyes of vapour crawled over them like insects. “I think not.” The smile spread, steam rose in waves from the young Lord’s shoulders. “Perhaps your skin and skills are better suited to my needs? Did you think I could not take you, Roderick of Av
esyr?” She chuckled. “Or perhaps I should just do this: E Rhan Khavaghakke…” She let the threat go, even as Rhan doubled over, gagging – the words were like a fist in the belly.
She laughed again.
Mael stood up, wiping his eyes on his sleeve like a child. “Selana,” he said. “Please. Please, come away from all this, come away…”
But she – they – laughed at them all, laughed like a roll of thunder, loud enough to fill the plaza below with sound.
“Muster your troops, Rhan, fight us if you will – if you can.” Vahl’s gaze, two sparks somewhere in Selana’s eyes, held Rhan’s own. The voice was now half in his ears and half in his head. “Ah, little brother, you’re more brutal than I’d ever realised, more merciless.” A chuckle drifted. “I’m proud of you.”
For a moment, Rhan could see it all in the smoke – the cold of the citadel, the fall and the water, the welcome of his lost siblings, the sense of family that no mortal could offer him, the ultimate fulfilment of his long, lingering loneliness. For that moment, he wavered.
Then a fist like a rock hit him across the jaw. Roderick was bellowing at him, though all he could hear was the roaring of his ears. He shook himself, tried to focus, snarled denial and wordless rage.
Vahl was laughing at him, had always been laughing at him. Selana’s face was tearing at the edges of her mouth; her smile was widening, widening as if to swallow the world.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Enough games. We will return for the city soon enough, and teach this feckless Tundran a lesson of power.”
Roderick, refusing to be baited, said nothing.
Rhan managed, “Please—”
Selana rounded on him. “I promise you this: we will tear your city to pieces. We will tear your world stone from stone. You will be its last living thing, crying and alone, and I will come back and remind you of this moment.” She was burning now, beauty and glory. “Mael understands – he won’t leave me. My mother understands. And there are others – Halydd, Ythalla, Adyle.” She gazed at him, her beauty breathtaking. “You can come with us, Rhan – exalt in the power and freedom we offer!”
