It was crude, he realized. And when I break through, what then?
He’d be left with a tiny opening, from which power would trickle. A jagged, turbulent gash. Hardly conducive to crafting, and not what he needed at all. Such a small opening wouldn’t serve his purpose. He’d need far more power than even ten such wells could provide, if he were to survive and free himself.
Forget the barrier, Gazija said. Look to the edge.
Caldan pulled back again and closed his well. It was easy to determine which of the marks in his mind were the foreign wells and which was his own. He just knew, in a way he couldn’t explain. If he wanted to open his well and access his power, then it just happened. It was as natural to him as breathing. He’d never given thought to what he did, what the process was.
Thought became action, which in turn led to him accessing his well. It just unfolded and was done.
Caldan breathed deeply and sank himself deeper into concentration, pushing himself to summon all the sorcerous sense that he had. He opened his well, then closed it. Did so again. And again. And again. Each time, he focused on what happened, the process of unveiling his well that he’d never before thought about.
Again he went through the process, this time straining to slow it down, to give himself time to actually see what was happening. Normally, it happened so fast there was no in-between stage. One moment his well was closed, and the next it was open. But something had to happen; his own barrier had to disappear and reappear somehow.
He moved his awareness close, until all he could see was the mark of his well.
Open. Closed. Open. Closed. Just like the exercises the monks had made him do when they’d found he had a well.
Open. Closed.
They hadn’t explained why he’d had to perform the exercise for hours on end, and being young and naive, he hadn’t asked.
Open. Closed.
Where did the barrier go?
Open. Closed.
The barrier . . . he’d been thinking of it as one, but what if it wasn’t? When his own well was closed, the covering wasn’t something foreign like a trapdoor. It was just there. And then it wasn’t.
He remembered something one of the monks had told him, a long time ago, when he’d just learned he was a sorcerer. It had been couched as a warning. No sorcery is perfect, and the power flowing through a well is scalding and caustic, like boiling acid. There have been instances where unwary sorcerers were roasted by their own wells, much like with a failing crafting.
The exercises he’d performed were training him. Training him to hold on to his power without thinking. Much like teaching a child to hold their pee so they wouldn’t wet the bed. Or in this case, fry their mind.
Caldan narrowed his senses to a pinprick, zooming in close to the edge of one of the new wells. This near, there was a sense of wrongness to it he hadn’t felt before. Darkness made up the edge of the barrier. Blackness so absolute it burned with intensity. It shrieked with abhorrence, seemed to seethe with insult. He shivered, but didn’t look away.
Gathering a thread of his power, he created a crafting without thinking, coercive in nature, splitting the thread into four, then eight. It was coming more and more easily to him.
He shaped a probe and plunged it into the darkness, meeting resistance, tightly woven, that pushed him back. The sense of wrongness returned, this time magnified tenfold. It shivered from his mind to his heart, seeming to mortify his soul.
Why did it feel wrong?
He couldn’t scratch or pierce it. And when he probed further, it seemed to respond in kind, gaining hardness, almost as if his prying lent it strength. He was missing something. Scraping or boring a hole, as Bells had done with Amerdan, wouldn’t be sufficient for him. He needed to find another way.
Caldan grimaced, frustrated.
His own well accepted him; it was his, and his alone.
And then it hit him.
His own well couldn’t be accessed by another sorcerer. He was trying to open another sorcerer’s well, one that was someone else’s. Theirs alone. The barrier was attuned to someone else. It prevented the well’s forces from scouring their mind, as his did for him.
He drew back, turning his attention to his own well, his own barrier. It was sorcery of a sort, instinctive and natural, totally unlike crafting. It came from within.
Open. Close.
Caldan let his mind drift, allowing his subconscious to control what happened.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
He moved to one of the other wells, and, as subtly as he could, directed his thoughts around it—as he had so many years ago with the monks’ tutelage.
Open. Close.
Barriers, resistance, had to remain. A sorcerer’s mind couldn’t allow unfettered power to escape.
Open. Close.
His own barrier covered the well.
Open. Close.
The wrongness he felt had to be another sorcerer’s barrier. A binding that remained, even after the well had been torn from the sorcerer.
Open. Close.
Caldan molded his edges over the intense darkness. If he’d had to guess, he’d say it was the thoughts of the sorcerer. Or at least part of their consciousness. Holding on to their power, restraining it; because to let go would be to sear their mind to nothing.
Even lacking consciousness, their final essence clung to a primal desire. The well needed to be contained. But if he created his own barrier, would the previous one dissolve? How could he make it relinquish its grasp?
Open. Close.
Stretching himself further, Caldan split more strings from his well: two, then four. He deftly created hooks of shimmering sorcery, runes and patterns coalescing with light. He hardened his own covering, stretching it to match with the edge of the well.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
The old barrier pushed against his, and Caldan sucked in a sharp breath and held it. It was almost as if the barrier had tested his own.
Open. Close.
Another push, this one harder, sharper.
Warmth came from the well, slowly at first, then hotter.
Caldan drew more power and strengthened his barrier, then laughed out loud. He was still going about this the wrong way. Coercive sorcery would be a crutch. He couldn’t hold on to this many strings for long, and he would certainly never be able to control more than one of these wells if he went about it this way.
He backed off, settling his mind, again letting himself drift. He mirrored his own well’s barrier and placed it over the strange well.
Open. Close.
A hot tearing. Caldan ignored it, but a tear trickled down his face. The last thoughts of a sorcerer. That’s what the barriers were. And he was dismantling them, showing the fragment of essence that there was another barrier now. One that could also contain the well.
And that the splinter of consciousness, the wrongness Caldan felt, could let go.
And, all of a sudden, it did.
Caldan’s barrier fused with the edge of the well. The darkness dissolved, burning away, flinching from his mind’s touch. His barrier settled into place.
Tendrils of blackness flittered this way and that, breaking into smaller pieces, dissolving, fading into oblivion. He was watching the final thoughts of a sorcerer disappear forever. Anguish racked him, deep inside his heart and mind.
More tears fell down his face.
“I’m sorry,” Caldan said, knowing it was futile, that the sorcerer couldn’t hear him.
He wiped his burning eyes with his fingers, then his wet fingers on his pants. It took him a few minutes before he could send his sight back inside. Caldan’s thoughts immediately went to his well, and with an effort, he wrenched them aside. He directed them to the other well.
It sat there, looking and feeling similar to his own. The wrongness had vanished, though a barrier still remained.
His barrier. His to control.
Tentatively, Caldan reached out and opened the well.
Power flooded him. Pure and scorching. Corrosive and chaotic. A burning that would char worldly materials to ashes. Energy, power, radiant and magnificent. He held it, marveling in its feel.
Excellent, Gazija said, his voice tinged with pleasure.
It was Caldan’s to control. And the well itself . . . smooth edged and wide. A gaping chasm compared to Amerdan’s jagged boreholes.
It was done. He’d figured out a way to make the wells his own, as if they were born to him.
Hastily, he erected a concealment, disguising his second well until it vanished from his sorcerous sight.
Caldan opened his eyes and looked out across the river.
Boats sailed and rowed. Sailors called across the water to one another. The sun shone. Birds flew on the breeze. The day was no different from any other. Caldan smothered the urge to laugh hysterically.
He’d damned himself further in Quiss’s eyes. First, when Amerdan had forced him to take on the wells, and now because he’d found a way to unlock their power. Was he so different from Kelhak, or whatever it was that inhabited his body? Had it made similar choices? Ones that seemed right at the time, the only way out of certain situations, to eventually have its humanity stripped from it, perhaps scourged clean by the vitriol of using so many wells?
A fish jumped from the water and splashed back down, startling him.
Just standing from his spot took all the will he had, strength, courage.
Miranda.
She was his anchor. He clung to her name like a shipwrecked sailor to a broken spar, murmured it like a benediction.
Something had changed inside Caldan, something greater than adding another well. And he didn’t know what.
CHAPTER 49
With Quiss at his side, Caldan trudged back into Riversedge. Gazija had told Caldan that Vasile would pose a risk of finding out about him, just through noticing inconsistencies in what Caldan said and did. And from then it would take just one closed question for Vasile to know if Caldan was lying.
The prospect of another meeting with the man who’d all but said he’d ordered Caldan’s parents to be killed filled him with dread and fury, but he kept a tight rein on his emotions. He had to focus on the present. Revenge, if that’s what he wanted, could wait until Kelhak was dealt with.
Quiss was silent, refusing to speak when Caldan spoke or raised a question. Eventually, Caldan kept quiet himself. Often the sorcerer lagged behind, as if hesitant to arrive at the meeting with Felice and the emperor, and Caldan had to frequently stop and wait for him to catch up.
On one such stop, a cold wind whipped at Caldan’s clothes, and he shivered, only partially from the chill air. In the east, clear sky gave way to dull gray. He scanned the horizon with careful eyes, searching for any sign the clouds were unnatural, but there was nothing.
It had been quiet, far too quiet recently.
Kelhak is up to something, Gazija said.
The ensouled construct was in a satchel Caldan had slung over his shoulder. Gazija had insisted on accompanying him.
Caldan grunted. “We’re all up to something.” This close to the emperor’s mansion the streets were strangely deserted, and Caldan had no fear he’d be overheard. He reached across to adjust the sling that cradled his maimed hand. It still throbbed, but not as much as before, and the swelling had mostly subsided.
He should be striking again, continued Gazija.
“I, for one, am glad he isn’t. You should be, too. It gives us time.” Caldan glanced back at Quiss, who was slowly approaching.
It gives him more time, too.
“You have no idea what he wants, do you?”
His goal here doesn’t seem to match what he did on my world. It’s strange . . . He’s changed . . . somehow.
That didn’t sound good at all. “Kelhak’s—the lich’s—goals are different? So it might not want to destroy everything?”
Whatever it wants, you can count on it not being a good thing for you, or anyone else. Which is where Amerdan’s trinket comes in. Quiss needs to find a weakness to exploit.
And the same weakness would apply to Caldan, with his numerous wells.
You are fearful of this, correct? You needn’t be.
Caldan forced himself to scoff. “I’m not. Why would I be? It’s just something that has occurred to me. The trinket is the key. What I don’t understand is why you’re not involved with dissecting it to reveal its workings.”
I told you, no one can know I’m still alive. We can’t risk anyone else knowing, not even Quiss. The more people know, the more likely it is Kelhak will be able to counter any plans we make. The element of surprise may be all we have left. Quiss and Mazoet can handle this task. They’re actually better at it than I am. Surprise you, does it? Leaders don’t have to be the best at everything. I’m confident they’ll find something we can use.
“I hope so. No, that’s not right. They have to.”
Indeed.
“Shouldn’t I be helping them? Why did you choose me? You could have revealed yourself to one of your people. They would have been glad to help you.”
Because, Caldan, Quiss will not be able to do what’s required to get us through this. It’s not a weakness. Perhaps in another time it would be a strength. But not now.
Caldan wished he could see Gazija, to judge his expression. But even if the sorcerer were standing before him, his face would be a blank mask of crafted metal. Gazija knew about his multiple wells. He sought to use Caldan, where Quiss would seek to limit him and then kill him after Kelhak had been dealt with. Perhaps Gazija would kill him after, also.
Caldan realized he would be a second card up their sleeve. A second extra move.
He almost laughed aloud at the thought. It was insane. Gazija pitched himself and Caldan against Kelhak and hoped they would suffice.
Many would kill to gain access to the power you have, Caldan. You should rejoice in it.
“I know. But I’m not one of them. I’d prefer to be normal again.” But that wasn’t going to happen. And what really surprised him was that he wasn’t even sure if he believed what he’d just said. His life would be simpler, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want a simple life. He had the potential to do great things, to be someone remarkable . . . It was tempting, but . . .
Maybe a life not so dangerous, he thought ruefully, but one where I can learn and grow. Where I can build my automatons and help people. Where I can be with Miranda.
Except Gazija and Quiss wouldn’t allow Caldan to live. It was too dangerous. He was too dangerous. This was his fate, and however much he wriggled and squirmed, like a worm on a hook, he couldn’t escape it. Or so they thought.
But he could try. And try he would.
Massive iron gates appeared ahead—the emperor’s compound. Caldan strode up and walked right through with barely a nod to the Quivers guarding the opening. A servant directed them along the path and into the mansion. At the doors leading to the audience chamber, Felice was waiting. Her hair was tied in an intricate braid, and her pants and shirt were dark red. She was staring at Caldan, and he gave her a short nod, which she returned before reaching up to straighten his collar.
“The others are inside. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. The warlocks and Protectors don’t know what to make of you now,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. “But the emperor will know. He always knows.”
Quiss watched them both. He glanced around at the guards along the hallway. “I’ll wait and see what the emperor has to say.”
“I’m at your disposal,” Caldan said to Felice. “I’ll do what’s right.”
Felice shook her head and let out a soft sigh. “No. We don’t need you to do what’s right. We need to get the job done. Whatever that entails.” There was a calculated pause. “Do you understand?”
Quiss snorted and shook his head. “That’s what Gazija would say,” he muttered.
“It’s as Rujandis wrote,” Caldan said, “in The Pillars of Soc
iety: ‘The meek must fall before the strong, for the needs of empire are greater than the needs of the individual.’” Although the emperor obviously doesn’t think so. He uses the empire to serve his own needs.
But Felice agreed, or at least that’s what she said. “Just so. We are falling toward an abyss, Caldan. One that would swallow us all. Everyone must play their part, but some can achieve more than others. Some people will be key. I believe you are one of them.” She smiled thinly. “But I have been wrong before.”
For a moment, Caldan thought about protesting. Who was he to be involved in such a high-stakes game as this? Except it wasn’t a game. Whether he liked it or not, Amerdan had thrust upon him the ability to do more than he ever thought possible, and he was now dealt in. Caldan drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll do my best. The Indryallans must be stopped, and Kelhak has to be defeated.”
“Good,” Felice said. “Then I think we’re ready. And I think you should know: Thenna was incapacitated when you were, and I took the opportunity to take the trinkets from her. The bone rings.”
Caldan scowled at her. “One was mine. You shouldn’t—”
“It was the emperor’s. And now I have them both, I’ll decide what to do with them. You lied to him. I had to intervene on your behalf. You’re lucky you’re still alive.”
He kept quiet, anger building inside. The ring had been one of his few links to his family, and presented an immense danger if used indiscriminately. And now it was gone.
Felice gestured for the Quivers to open the doors.
Metal hinges creaked, a sound Caldan decided was much like the winding of a massive iron trap.
They strode into the audience chamber, and this time the sides were empty. There was no crowd, no functionaries or hangers-on. No nobles come to bask in the emperor’s presence.
Only the emperor, sitting on a throne-like chair atop the semicircular dais.
Gone was his exquisite smith-crafted armor. He was clothed in close-fitting pants and a red coat with gold embroidery at the collar and sleeves. His straight platinum hair hung over his shoulders, and his violet eyes stared intensely at them as they approached.
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