A Shattered Empire

by Mitchell Hogan

  “Go on.”

  “I think what kept everyone from truly studying them is the fact that they’re so valuable. People have killed for them. Which is why the thought of deliberately damaging one is unheard of.”

  “But you have?”

  “Yes. I . . . found a ring. And after I made my latest simulacrum, I used the blacksmith’s waterwheel-powered hammer to cut the trinket in half. Inside was a hidden crafting. Here.” Caldan rummaged in his pocket and brought out one section of the trinket ring. He handed it to Quiss.

  Quiss took the segment and turned it over in his palm. His eyes became unfocused as he studied the trinket. For long moments, he remained still. Caldan was about to ask a question when all of a sudden Quiss hissed with disgust.

  “Abomination,” Quiss whispered.

  “What is it?” Caldan asked.

  Without warning, Quiss lunged for him and seized his arms, jerking Caldan toward him.

  “Do you have more?” Quiss asked wildly. “Trinkets? Are there more here?”

  “Quiss, what’s wrong?” said Selbourne.

  Caldan thrust Quiss away. “One. It’s not what we need to study, though.”

  “Show me!” Quiss said, ignoring Selbourne’s question.

  Reluctantly, Caldan held up his hand.

  Quiss’s gaze fixed on his silver ring. “We didn’t know. We dismissed these as advanced craftings, not worth our time to study.”

  “What is it?” repeated Caldan.

  Quiss staggered back. He held on to Selbourne to support his weight and passed a hand over his eyes, as if suddenly weary. “I’m too weak for this,” he muttered.

  “Quiss,” implored Caldan. “Tell us what you see.”

  “I see a well. Veiled. Hidden. Of course, these objects have to draw power from somewhere. We were mistaken when we thought them but craftings.”

  “They have a well inside them?” Caldan said.

  Quiss nodded weakly.

  “Inanimate objects can’t have wells,” said Selbourne. “Even I know this.”

  And Quiss nodded again.

  Caldan caught his breath. “Then . . . each one had to take a well from a person? A sorcerer?”

  “Take?” Quiss laughed, the brittle laugh of someone in disbelief. “Your well is part of you, your essence. You know this. To take it would be to kill you. No, they are not taken. The being is the well, and the well is the object. There is no separating them. Unlike Savine, when Rebecci captured him. In this case, the being is imprisoned. Forever. There is no release.”

  And Caldan understood. Each trinket housed a sorcerer’s essence, stripped from them. Their physical bodies discarded in order to create the item. No sorcerer would do this willingly. To sacrifice themselves in this way, and for what? To create a trinket? No . . . they were unwilling participants, their powers and lives torn from them to construct artifacts.

  Like stealing a Touched’s blood.

  And I’ve been wearing one the entire time . . .

  Abomination, as Quiss had said.

  Caldan held his clenched fist up to his gaze. On his finger shone his trinket ring, passed down to him by his parents. Whatever its powers, whatever benefits he would gain from it, the cost was too high. Too . . . immoral. Evil. There was no other word.

  “Abomination,” Caldan repeated numbly. He understood. But a part of him failed to grasp the enormity. “Show me,” he asked of Quiss.

  And Quiss did. He constructed a coercive sorcerous crafting, much as he had when Miranda was healed. Caldan, well open, followed what Quiss did. He sent his senses along the path Quiss took, down into the trinket.

  Of course, coercive sorcery. A prison would be needed to hold the sorcerer and his or her well. What else would suffice? The patterns were complex and ever shifting. Caldan couldn’t follow most of what Quiss did. But he could see the crafting inside revealed, when layers of camouflage were stripped away and the inner workings laid bare. Inside the trinket was a pulsing heart. A repository of power. But it was still a crafting.

  Caldan hesitated, then sent his awareness to examine the inner workings of his bone trinket. Inside the bone ring, visible to him only now that Quiss had led the way, were familiar, yet distorted patterns. Carved inside the ring by a sorcerer with an extremely fine control of destructive sorcery. As Quiss had confirmed: Trinkets were advanced craftings. Extremely complex versions, their inner workings disguised and hidden, with a well taken from a hapless sorcerer.

  It stood to reason that the function of the bone rings, the creation and control of the purified lands, wasn’t the only reason their existence was kept hidden. They functioned as trinkets, yet they weren’t made of the same hard alloy every other trinket was made of. Sorcerers and scholars believed the metal was designed that way both to weather the corrosive sorcerous forces, and so they couldn’t be damaged from everyday use. But that was false, as Caldan had proven; the robust metal was to conceal a crafting.

  Caldan drew his senses away from the bone ring. He rubbed the back of his neck, aware he was shaking. “What Quiss said is true,” he found himself saying. “Trinkets are . . . enslaved sorcerers, housed in a shell.”

  Somewhere, probably during the casting, when someone had been embedding the coercive crafting through the patterns of the ring, a sorcerer’s soul had been imprisoned within the object. Had they somehow added the soul into the crucible to mingle with the metal?

  Sorcerers’ souls ripped from them, compelled to serve a function.

  And what’s more, the warlocks must know. Kristof had said only the warlocks could provide the trinkets to mitigate the damaging effects of his Touched abilities. That was why the bone ring was so important to them and the emperor—it was the secret of trinkets revealed for everyone to see. Caldan suspected they knew how to create trinkets, which meant they continued the atrocity. Another black mark against them. As if he needed more to see how truly vile they were.

  He’d been right to kill Devenish. The thought rocked Caldan to his core. Right to kill someone when he was defenseless? What was he becoming?

  What I need to be . . . if I want to survive.

  Another thought came to him. “Are they aware?” Caldan asked Quiss.

  “No,” Quiss said. “They couldn’t be.”

  Caldan wasn’t so sure. They knew so little. Miranda had thoughts and dreams while she was suffering from the backlash of Bells’s sorcery—though she’d said they were scattered and ephemeral.

  They are as I am, Caldan thought. My brothers, and sisters. We weren’t asked if we wanted to be sorcerers. And in their case, they were also given no choice about their fate.

  “But you don’t know,” Caldan said. “They could be. We should seek trinkets out and destroy them. Set them free.”

  “That would take centuries,” Quiss said. He peered at the ring half on his palm. “And that is not a task I would relish taking on, and one that would have to wait anyway. Amerdan’s trinket is more important. It holds the key to defeating Kelhak.”

  “Maybe,” Caldan said quietly. “We’re guessing it does.”

  “It is our best hope. If Gazija were here, then . . . but he’s gone.”

  There was weariness in Quiss’s voice. He’d obviously not only venerated Gazija, but relied on the old man’s intelligence and wisdom.

  Quiss met his eyes. “If we fail, there won’t be anyone after us.”

  “Then we’d best get back. There are still jukari and vormag out there. We should leave while we can; there’s no point fighting more of them.”

  Quiss looked away, then nodded. “You’re right. Gather the others. We’ve got what we came for.”

  “We were lucky. It could have gone much worse.”

  “It will, Caldan. The worst is yet to come.”

  SINCE HE’D FIGURED out what the warlocks did with the Touched, a rage had burned within Caldan. Now, realizing another of their secrets, one they’d possibly killed his family to keep hidden, he possessed a strange vigor. He . . . seethed
. An emotion so intense he hadn’t recognized it for what it was. Hate.

  It was like alcohol scorching through his veins. Similar to the heat of his Touched abilities. It was a heady feeling. A promise of violence to come.

  The fact that the warlocks committed their obscene deeds for power was . . . grotesque. And it wasn’t even as if they wanted to do anything with that power; they were simply scared of losing what they already had.

  But their strength might be needed, if the lich was to be defeated. Because even with Quiss and his people, they were almost certainly overmatched. And the warlocks could be the force that turned the tide.

  The question, then, was if they should be seen as allies or as sacrifices. Should they be warned, and strategies formed with their full knowledge? Or should they do the grunt work, possibly weakening Kelhak, but ultimately be wiped out by him and the Indryallan sorcerers that opposed them?

  The problem was, Caldan didn’t know the answer.

  If Quiss was correct and they determined a way to combat the lich, should they save the warlocks, or let them be devastated, along with the empire?

  REALITY TWISTED AGAIN. Caldan’s stomach churned, and his head spun.

  The ground fell out from under him, then thumped into the soles of his boots, as if he’d fallen from a height. Crackles and fizzles sounded close by. Again, the overpowering scent of scorched metal and lemons. The world turned dark gray.

  He realized he was on his back, head pressing into damp grass. He took a painful breath.

  Almost, Caldan thought. He’d opened his well and tried to discern what Quiss and the other sorcerers did to create the transition. They’d used at least ten strings, and the power it had required . . . There was no chance he’d be able to draw that much from his well.

  He squeezed his eyes and rubbed them, then sat up. Groans came from the mercenaries as cloth rustled and leather creaked. Selbourne started barking orders.

  Caldan stood and brushed pieces of dry grass and twigs from his clothes. It didn’t help, as they remained filthy with dirt and dried blood. The dawning sun cast everything around them in pale light. He turned his face away from it.

  Quiss was still examining the trinket and looked to be unaware of the goings-on around him.

  “Let’s get back to the ships,” Mazoet said. “You can clean up a bit more there, and we can get started on figuring out this trinket.”

  A few hours, Caldan told himself. That’s what I’ll give them, and then I can make a decision about what to do next. He could wash, change his clothes, and, most important, make sure he had mastery of the concealment of his wells. His wells. Even the thought made him sick. They weren’t his, they were someone else’s. People who’d died as their powers were ripped from them. Whenever he opened his well, he could feel them. Even when his well was closed, he could still sense them, a similar feeling to when someone stood behind you: you couldn’t see them, but you knew they were there.

  He shuddered, glancing at his wolf, which sat on the ground beside him.

  “I don’t want Miranda to see me like this,” Caldan said, though to his ears it sounded a weak excuse.

  Quiss shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the trinket, and looked at him with sympathy. “She’s stronger than you think. That you had to kill someone was . . . unavoidable. But it was a lich. He was tainted. Console yourself with the fact that, if left unchecked, he would likely have become another Kelhak. Though it’s more likely he would have come to Kelhak’s attention and been subsumed himself, his own wells adding to Kelhak’s already considerable powers. We not only stopped that, but now we have a chance. A slim one, but it’s there.” Quiss smiled thinly. “What more can we ask, except for a chance? You’re safe. For the time being.”

  Caldan drew a deep breath and walked a few paces, trying to settle his unease. But he couldn’t forget Quiss’s words.

  Amerdan was tainted.

  So that means I’m tainted, too? That I might become another Kelhak.

  That I’m a monster that may need to be killed as well . . .

  He pushed those dark thoughts to the back of his mind, fearful of where they might lead him. He hadn’t chosen to do this, and maybe that counted for something, but he would decide what to do about it on his own terms. The way Quiss spoke, there was no equivocation when it came to liches, and he was one . . .

  “Caldan?”

  “Sorry. It’s a lot to take in. But of course you’re right. Still, I can’t let her see me in this state. I’ll wash up first before I see her. But right now I need some time to collect myself.”

  “Very well,” Quiss said. “Do not tarry, though. We’ve work to do.”

  Caldan left Quiss and Mazoet and made his way to Selbourne and his men, who were now waiting a short distance away. They’d left a trail in the dew-laden grass, and Caldan followed it. None of the mercenaries showed any signs of tiredness after the night’s fighting and travel. A little dusty, some black blood spatters showing, but other than that, they looked ready to fight.

  His fingers strayed to touch his trinket ring. Now that he knew how they were made, could he remain in possession of it? It weighed heavily on his hand, as if since he knew it contained another sorcerer’s soul, just by wearing it he had a hand in the vile process. He could almost feel the corruption working its way into his finger, along his arm and up his veins into his heart.

  But was it his problem to solve? There was much in the world he had no power over. And this was one thing he had no solution to.

  “You did well,” Selbourne said. He tugged on his beard and gave Caldan a shrewd look. “You’re welcome to join us for a drink. A celebration that we’re still alive, and a toast to the fallen.”

  “I . . . thank you. Perhaps another time.” Caldan glanced back at Quiss and Mazoet, who were slowly trudging away, the other sorcerers behind them. They were all immersed in what Quiss held in his hand. The mercenaries followed, leaving Caldan alone with Selbourne.

  The big man watched his men for a few moments, seemingly content not to say anything. Soon, the sorcerers and mercenaries were all aboard the ship and going below.

  Caldan cleared his throat. “From what you said before, you must know Miranda. How? Where did—”

  “I don’t usually explain myself. She can tell you herself.”

  “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  Selbourne grunted in amusement. “That’s wise. If she trusts you, she’ll tell you. As for me, I don’t trust you.”

  Caldan opened his mouth to protest.

  “Not yet,” continued Selbourne sharply. “Something happened to you out there. Quiss doesn’t see it, but he’s got a lot on his mind. I see it, though. You need to think long and hard about concealing something from him.”

  “The only thing that happened was I killed someone. I killed him for a trinket. What does that make me?”

  “A realist. It had to be done.” Selbourne turned away, as if to leave, then looked back. “Whatever happened, tell Quiss.”

  I can’t.

  But Caldan only nodded. If Selbourne told Quiss he was hiding something, then he’d have to come up with a plausible story. That was something he would have to deal with if it happened, though.

  A featherlight touch brushed against his awareness.

  He frowned, pausing.

  What is that?

  He waited for a few moments. It didn’t return.

  “Selbourne,” Caldan warned, causing the mercenary to stop his progress toward the ships and come back.

  “What is it?” said Selbourne.

  Something wasn’t quite right. Caldan’s hand crept toward his sword, and when he clasped the hilt, his nerves steadied. Then, his threads leading to his wolf simulacrum were severed. It fell into a heap a dozen paces away.

  Caldan clawed at his well.

  Which was blocked.

  By the ancestors . . . Mold must be here with the Protectors’ trinket sword, probably with Thenna.

  Figur
es appeared from the shadows.

  There was no time to get back to the ship and under Quiss’s protection. Selbourne should save himself. “Run,” he told the mercenary. “The warlocks are here. They’ve come for me.”

  The mercenary glanced around them, squinting in the darkness. “I have your back—”

  “Run!” Caldan said. “You’ve no chance against them without Quiss. Find him!”

  Selbourne ran, cursing, while Caldan backed away from the ships, breath quickening. He drew his sword and peered around him.

  They were out there, likely warlocks and their guards, blades bared, wells open and linked, waiting for him. Sorcery was his only option for escape, and yet it was barred to him.

  His hand clenched into a fist. His trinket ring dug into his flesh. Caldan tried to trigger his Touched abilities. He thought dark, violent thoughts.

  Nothing happened.

  He bent and slammed his fist into the ground, pain exploding across his knuckles. And again.

  Still nothing.

  Blood trickled down his fingers and dripped onto the earth. Grasses parted to the clomp of booted footsteps. A faint scent of lemons and hot metal. As if that was needed, if he was blocked.

  Caldan frowned. The blockage of his own well was startlingly similar to that of the others he’d acquired. Less solid somehow, but it had the same feel.

  The smell of lemons became stronger.

  “Don’t do this,” he shouted. “You know what I can do.”

  An amused laugh answered, coming from the trees. A woman’s.

  But the person who spoke next was a man Caldan recognized, as he’d suspected: Master Mold of the Protectors. He had to be the one using the trinket sword. The same one Caldan had carried all the way from Anasoma and delivered to them.

  “You’re unable to craft, and your strength and speed will be matched. You’ll be overpowered.” There was a pause. “Caldan, turn yourself in without any trouble. It will go easier for you. Thenna told us what you did.”

  For a moment, he almost abandoned all hope.

  But he was tired, and hurt, and angry. And if he was to die here, he’d die with the truth known.