by Carol A Park
He smothered the remains of the smoldering paper and picked up the second sliver of aether. “This is aether from what we call a moonblood. The most useful application of this aether, I think you will find, is this.” He crushed the aether—and disappeared.
Nahua shot up out of her chair, her mouth open, and even Tanuac made a sound of surprise in the back of his throat.
Driskell stared hard at the place where Yaotel had disappeared. After a moment, he saw a faint outline. It shimmered, and then disappeared again. And then Yaotel reappeared completely.
“An actual moonblood is nigh on undetectable when using their own aether, though it also seems to be linked to the phase of the moon. But others can use it to similar effect.”
He opened another pouch and pulled out yet another sliver of aether.
Driskell, again, had to remember what he was supposed to be doing. He scratched down a description of each ability as Yaotel had given it, drawing an arrow to each pouch it had come out of.
“Dal Driskell,” said Yaotel, “if I might trouble you again…”
Driskell, once again, looked up.
Yaotel had drawn a penknife, a rag, and a small jar of what looked like a medicinal salve out of his bag. “May I nick your finger?”
Driskell hesitated, and then put his hand out across the table to Yaotel. Yaotel made a short cut, and blood welled up. Yaotel wiped it away on the rag, then tossed the rag to Tanuac.
“There,” he said, putting the penknife away and picking up another sliver of aether. “Now you can be confident that your attaché is not a Gifted, Your Excellency,” he said, amusement around his eyes.
Tanuac let out a breath.
Yaotel crushed the aether into the salve, and then dabbed a bit on his finger. He rubbed it on Driskell’s cut.
His finger already stung less.
“That is aether from what we call a bindblood. It has healing properties, among others. We’ll let it sit for a moment.”
Yaotel picked up the mirror. “This is a device made from lightblood aether, one of our more ingenious inventions, if I do say so myself. We call it a ‘qixli.’” He held the mirror between his hands. “This will allow me to contact any other Gifted with a qixli that I wish and speak to them instantly. If both I and the other Gifted were lightbloods, we would be able to see each other clearly as well.”
That was…incredible. Even Driskell had to admit that the ramifications of these abilities were far-ranging. If they could be reproduced on a wide scale, it would transform society.
There was silence in the room, and Yaotel frowned after a moment when nothing happened.
“All right,” he said. “I can contact another Gifted if they see the qixli glowing. Let me try someone else.”
Finally, the silver in the mirror moved. They all leaned over the table to see better, and even Nahua didn’t clear her throat at Driskell this time.
The silver raised like someone was pressing the face of a doll into the back of it: indistinct, but clearly a face.
“Danton,” Yaotel said. “It’s Yaotel.”
And then, a voice came through the device. It was tinny, but an understandable voice, all the same. “Hey, boss. It’s been awhile. I tried to contact you a few times.”
“I’ve been unavailable; my apologies. I need you in Marakyn. Are you still at the site?”
The person on the other side—Danton—said, “Uh, well, I’m already on my way back. I’d say three or four days out.”
Yaotel’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes searching the air as if calculating or trying to remember something. “All right,” he said slowly. “Good. Any word from Vaughn? I tried him first, and he didn’t answer.”
Danton cleared his throat. At least that was sort of what it sounded like, if a tiny metal man could clear his throat. “Haven’t heard from him in a bit, no.”
“All right. If you get the chance, try him again for me, and see if you can get an update. I may not be available for a little bit again.”
“Got it.”
Yaotel put down the qixli and the face disappeared.
Driskell stared at the device in wonder, and based on Nahua’s and Tanuac’s expressions, he guessed they were feeling the same. Tanuac’s face had lost some of its skepticism and was now openly amazed.
Yaotel looked between the three of them, and then at Driskell. “How’s the finger, Dal Driskell?”
Driskell wiped the salve on his trousers and looked at his finger. He blinked. “Temoth,” he said. “The cut is gone.” He held up the finger.
All three of them turned to Yaotel.
“And what do you do? Without the aether of other Banebringers?” Tanuac asked.
Yaotel’s jaw tightened, but it smoothed out quickly. “I’m a beastblood,” Yaotel said. “Unfortunately, it’s not easily demonstrable. My aether allows me to hurt or kill bloodbane more easily. It works wonders for other Gifted when applied to weapons, and I can touch a bloodcrab, for instance, and make the shell explode.” He inclined his head. “If I wanted to get close enough, that is.”
Driskell felt that if his mouth became any wider, it would swallow his head whole.
Nahua turned to Tanuac. “The Conclave knows about this, Father. They use this aether. They could have been using it to help people all this time, and instead they’ve spent it on their own power.”
Tanuac’s mouth was set in a line. “Yes,” he said simply. “How does the Conclave use it, Dal? Are they secretly Banebringers?”
“No,” Yaotel said. “It’s tedious, but if you were to mix your blood with one of these aether types, and then use that specific mix, you could do this as well. This is something we’ve only discovered in the past two years. The Conclave has known it for a while; that’s how they use the aether themselves.”
Driskell was adept at keeping his mouth shut. It wasn’t his job to speak in meetings. But this time, it burst out of him before he could help himself. “I could do this? If I…do what you say?”
Yaotel nodded at him. “Yes, Dal Driskell. And that’s the most far-reaching implication of any of this.”
Tanuac, finally, finally, sank down in his chair, his steel composure and cynical attitude gone. “I…had no idea.”
“Of course not,” Yaotel said. “You—generally speaking, of course—have been too busy hating Gifted to consider what we might offer.” He tapped his pouch. “There are more than these, but I’ve given you demonstrations of some of the most obviously helpful applications of our magic—to combat and general society.” He raised an eyebrow. “So. Questions?”
“Many,” Tanuac said. “First: What are the Ichtaca? Yet another name for Banebringers?”
“No. There are many more Gifted than are under my authority. Most don’t even know about us. The Ichtaca are a group of Gifted specifically devoted to researching our magic and everything we can find about Gifted in the past. We’ve also begun to explore using our abilities for combat, something we’ve…avoided until recently.”
“And in return for sharing all of this with us…”
“Sanctuary, Your Excellency,” Yaotel said, sounding suddenly tired. “As you might imagine, the world is a dangerous place for us. Most of us want nothing more than the ability to live a peaceful life like anyone else. Those who have managed to keep their change a secret live in constant fear of discovery.”
“So, you want Donia—or at least Marakyn—to provide sanctuary to any Banebringer who asks for it?”
“Not even that much. I can only vouch for those Gifted willing to swear loyalty to the Ichtaca. If they are willing to join the Ichtaca—which would mean willing to cooperate with you—they would be offered safety here in Marakyn.” He hesitated. “I won’t dissemble. Not all Gifted have our same agenda.”
Tanuac rubbed his chin, and Driskell noted Yaotel’s qualification. Driskell couldn’t help but wonder what other agendas were out there. He wrote both thoughts down for Nahua’s later consideration.
; “Driskell informed you of the pending Conclave threat, and the Xambrians’ proposed alliance?” Tanuac said.
“Yes.”
“If the Conclave decides to make use of those troops—and I have no doubt they’ll bolster their numbers if necessary—to lay siege to Marakyn, we are well-situated to withstand it, but, of course, not indefinitely. The Xambrians are of no use until the four outer regions—of most importance, Ferehar—agree to their proposal. That’s another matter I have yet to figure out, since Ferehar is the one region that will almost certainly refuse. In the meantime, I need to hold the Conclave off—whether by force, diplomacy, or some combination thereof. I don’t care, as long as it buys us the time we need. Can you help with that?”
Yaotel didn’t waver. “Yes. If you agree to this alliance, I will immediately call any and all Ichtaca scattered around the Empire. There are many already here, or nearby. I will work with your generals to determine the best use of our personnel and abilities. Not knowing the specifics of this army, I can’t promise victory, but I can promise our aid.”
“I can’t make this decision alone.” Tanuac jerked his head. “Well. I could. But I won’t. That isn’t how I do things. I need to discuss this with my Gan, and I want a majority to agree to the alliance before we take such a monumental step. If they refuse, I will see you safely out of the city, and we’ll pretend this never happened. Is that acceptable?”
Yaotel stood. “I already determined that I would take this risk, whatever it meant. It’s acceptable.” He nodded to Nahua. “Thank you, my lady, for giving me a chance, and thank you, Your Excellency, for hearing me. It’s more than most would ever do.”
Tanuac nodded. “Driskell, show Yaotel back to his room in the consulate. We will continue to keep him under guard until the decision is made.”
Driskell inclined his head. “Yes, Your Excellency.”
Chapter Ten
Nightmares
Ivana flung herself over her father’s corpse, tears streaming down her face.
Gildas spoke from above her, a bloody sword dangling from his hand. “The next time you want to play the whore, girl, at least ask for payment first.”
“Monster,” she hissed. She lifted her head to look at him, then recoiled. She was staring not at Gildas, but at herself—as a young woman. The sword had become a dagger, and—
The corpse was that of Boden, the friend she had murdered.
She staggered back as the corpse lifted itself off the ground and then rose to its feet. “Monster,” it whispered.
Younger Ivana joined it. “Monster,” they chanted together.
Only then did she notice that the ground was littered with corpses. Three more rose: her father, then her mother, and her sister—all leering at her with accusing, hateful eyes. “Monster…monster…”
“No!” she gasped, stumbling back, but they pressed in on her. She fell—
“No!”
Ivana sat up, her heart pounding, her shirt drenched in sweat. She had the vague impression that the exclamation had come from her own lips, and she glanced toward where Vaughn had been keeping watch, near the door of the small shelter.
Now, of course, he had turned toward her. He said nothing, though whether that was out of politeness or discomfort, she didn’t know. She couldn’t see his face well enough in the dark.
Her hands were trembling while she clutched at her blanket, so she tucked her hands out of sight and glared at Vaughn. She may not have been able to see his expression, but with his night vision—another of his “gifts”—he would be able to see hers.
A few of her harried heartbeats passed, and then he turned back to the door.
Ivana lay back down and turned her back to him. She tugged the blanket back over herself, but she wouldn’t be able to sleep now.
At least until her heart stopped thrashing about so wildly.
That had been the third time in the past week and a half. She hadn’t had such vivid nightmares in years. Over a decade, in fact.
It was her own damn fault for stopping at the burial grounds on the way out of Carradon. What had she been thinking?
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, hoping she could trick her body into settling back down.
Her heart eventually did, but she couldn’t fall back into deep sleep again. Instead, she drifted in and out of consciousness until Vaughn roused her to take her turn to keep watch. Full wakefulness snatched any other dreams from her memory, leaving behind only the impression that they had been likewise troubled.
It was in that mood that she settled down at the door, where Vaughn had just been, and stared out into the darkness beyond.
And it was dark. Though the night was clear and stars visible high above, the moon was only a sliver in the sky.
Not having Vaughn’s night vision, she listened more than she watched; beyond the door-less frame, she could see little other than the hulking shapes of a boulder here or there, and a mass of darkness farther to the north that blotted out the stars: the higher Cadmyrian mountains.
One advantage, if it could be called that, to the barren landscape was that if two luminous white eyes appeared in the night, she would most certainly see them.
She would have preferred a shelter that had a door; this one had been torn off and never fixed.
Thankfully, this was the last night they would have to spend in this place, known interchangeably as the Fereharian desert and the Fereharian plateau. There were no inns here, only a scattering of shelters on the plateau itself where travelers could camp for protection against the elements—or out of the eyes of prowling bloodbane.
They had pushed themselves hard, rising before the sun and traveling well into the night when any caravan or normal traveler would have stopped, and had crossed the rocky wasteland in three days. Another advantage to Vaughn’s night vision—and invisibility, if needed.
Tomorrow they would wind their way down the steep path that descended from the plateau and into Ferehar proper.
She inhaled deeply of the night air.
Was that why she had had that nightmare again tonight? They had been on the road from Carradon for a week and a half, but all day that day, as they had traveled, the knowledge that they would soon be back in Ferehar had weighed on her.
She tried to cast it off as nothing, but that wasn’t as easy as it used to be.
She had crossed this plateau once before, fourteen years ago, going the other direction. It had not been a pleasant experience. She had followed, unbeknownst to the driver, at the tail end of a large caravan. The rearguard had seen her, but they had ignored her and let her take advantage of the safety of their numbers—and guards—even though she had paid nothing to join them.
But then, it had been late autumn, rather than mid-spring. The pass and plateau were nigh on impassable in the dead of winter, but still treacherous in late fall and early spring, when the weather could be unpredictable and suddenly violent.
And the year she had left Ferehar, winter had come early. While snows hadn’t yet blocked the pass, fierce storms higher up in the northern mountains drove down bloodbane that weren’t normally seen on the plateau at that time of year. Bitter winds howled across the rocky wasteland, and the wails of bloodbane haunted the caravan. She’d seen one of them once—a monster ten feet tall, clad in hide that looked like chiseled black ice, with teeth and claws to match.
She had been terrified, and rightly so. One of them had attacked the vanguard and decimated the first two wagons before the guards had managed to bring it down—so the word had come back to the rear, anyway.
She had never been more glad to reach the foothills and be on the way to Carradon.
She hadn’t known what waited for her there.
Perhaps it would have been better if she had died there on this plateau.
Monster.
She gritted her teeth. She would not question her choice now. It was far too late for that.
A crash sounded in the distance, startling her out of her tho
ughts. She strained her eyes against the night.
Nothing.
They had been lucky so far. They had seen no bloodgiants, despite the warning the Watchman in Carradon had given them. During the day, the only bloodbane that had troubled them had been the occasional bloodsnake—those liked to lurk in holes in the ground, waiting to dart out and bite the feet or ankles of travelers. However, they had seen several bloodhawks flying far above, and Vaughn had kept his bow—and aether—handy. By night, while they had heard howling in the distance, nothing had ever come closer.
Another crash, this time, closer—and now she saw something large and hulking moving in the dark. She froze. The shape was, for now, moving parallel to their shelter, rather than toward it.
Even so, she crawled back toward where Vaughn slept and shook him. “Vaughn,” she whispered, then shook him again.
He started up. “Wha—? Oh.” A pause. “It’s still dark. What’s wrong?”
“There’s something out there. I can’t see it well. My guess is a bloodgiant.”
Vaughn unwound himself from his blanket, crept over to the door, and peered into the night.
Another crash.
“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “It’s a bloodgiant, all right. It’s lumbering around, throwing boulders.”
“Wha—why?”
“Bored, probably. Lack of travelers to smash.”
The dark shape paused. Another crash.
He leaned over and grabbed his bow from where it lay. “Might be a good time for you to have some of the aether we made at hand. Be better if we can both see—or turn invisible, if need be.”
Ivana reached into the pouch at her waist and felt for the final pocket on the right. She fingered a sliver of aether—a mix of her own blood and Vaughn’s, so she could use the aether and have the same abilities Vaughn did. It wouldn’t last as long as when he burned aether inside or outside his body, and it had a higher likelihood of failure—though she had learned that moonblood aether was one of the less “capricious” of the aethers, whatever that meant.