He expelled the breath as he let go the feelings of hate and rage that stirred along with the images sent by the spirits of things-to-come. A little-known facet of the gift of the Ka, to feel oneself the emotions associated with each vision. The spirits were ill-adept at communicating with men. Where a man might speak his meaning plain, finding simple words to express a sentiment, the spirits sent sights, emotions, thoughts, words, even smells, tastes. A purifying experience each time the weight of a sending crashed into him. It left him humbled, but also wiser for having glimpsed beyond the limits of what it was to be a man. Even at their worst, the visions gave him that much.
He breathed evenly, calming himself until he was satisfied he had divined what he could from this latest onslaught. Precious little. Perhaps a warning against some dire shadow looming over the cold season. If it was a true sending, he would see it again. For now, it was enough to seal it away among the many such visions of its kind, unlikely to be corroborated, or even mentioned in future sendings. Such was the madness of the spirits. It seemed they grasped at any chance to stir him, to drive home whatever grotesque purpose was served by these images of violence and loss. If there was a pattern, or some deeper meaning, it eluded him.
DEATH COMES FOR YOU, KA’VOS. IT APPROACHES.
He sighed. Another torrent of images and feelings. Silently he thanked his mentor for the training that let him weather this madness with stoic grace. As a youth he might have gone mad himself to bear this. As a man, a trained Ka of the Sinari, he carried it with dignity and pride. Of the people of the Sinari, only perhaps Ilek’Inari had any glimmer of what he endured each day. A sending no less horrifying than this might come at any moment, and often did. He would remain strong. It was no small thing he asked of the Ka of other tribes, to live with these horrors and set them aside. But it could be done. The alternative was unthinkable.
A stirring at the entrance to his tent promised a welcome distraction. A kindness perhaps, sent from the untainted spirits even as some twisted few among them showed him their latest madness. He reached down and snuffed the incense burning in a bowl beside him, its smoky fragrance filling his tent. Such implements helped him focus when the visions came.
“Enter,” he called, keeping his voice steady.
The canvas flap of his tent was pushed aside, and Llanara stepped through, her head lowered. Llanara, who wore red where tradition dictated blue. A powerful soul. The spirits had been silent regarding her new gift. He had expected guidance, and received nothing. Another mystery laid at their feet.
“Be welcome, daughter of the Sinari. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
She bowed her head further in a show of respect. “Good morning to you, shaman. May I sit?”
He gestured to an open mat across from his, opposite the fire crackling in the center of his tent. She lowered herself into a cross-legged position, closing her eyes as she inhaled the aroma of the incense mixing with the acrid smoke of the fire. He remained silent, regarding her with a patient expression. Long years of treating with both the spirits and the tribesfolk made plain when one of his people carried a burden. He would let her reveal its nature in due course.
“The air cools,” she said. “It seems the hot season gives way faster than I can recall it having done before.”
He smiled. “It is often so. Yet do not discount the fire spirits—we may think them deeply slumbering, and then be granted days of heat, to remind us of their power.”
She nodded absently, then grew silent once more.
“Why have you come to see me this morning, Llanara?” At that moment another wave of grisly images flashed before his eyes, and he smelled blood near strong enough to make him retch. He offered another silent thanks to his onetime mentor, for the training that let him bear it without an outward sign. This daughter of the tribe needed his guidance, and he would give it no matter how the mad spirits tried to interfere.
“I grow worried,” she said finally. “Worried for Arak’Jur. We have had no word yet from the Ranasi?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. The tidings he carried will be difficult for the Ranasi to bear, as you well know. His presence there will be a comfort, and he will stay as long as he is needed.”
“His journey will lead him beyond Ranasi lands, will it not?”
He felt a surge of fear at that, though he outwardly dissembled, as he had with the spirits’ visions. How much did she know of his and Arak’Jur’s plan, to solicit allies among the other tribes? It was not a thing to speak of in the open, yet perhaps Arak’Jur had taken Llanara into his confidence before he left. She was his woman, after all. Still, his instincts urged caution, and he spoke with care.
“The spirits will guide Arak’Jur through the shamans’ visions. Ka’Hinari carries their favor as surely as I do, and if it is needful for our guardian to journey farther than our neighbor’s lands, such will be revealed to him.”
“Of course, he will act as the visions guide him,” she said. “But I am not alone in my worries. Others have raised their concerns to me, others among the women. The Olessi and the Ranasi have been stripped of their guardians. A dire time for our people, and now Arak’Jur journeys away from our village. If something were to happen to him …”
“I have seen nothing that would betoken danger to our elder guardian, and we still have Ilek’Inari.”
“Yes, honored shaman, I trust it is as you say. But neither the Olessi nor the Ranasi Ka had foreknowledge of the loss of their guardians. And Ilek’Inari is still an apprentice.”
He nodded grimly. “There is wisdom in your words, but this is the course set for Arak’Jur by the spirits.”
“Is it?”
He felt ice grip his heart. She knew.
“What do you mean, Llanara?”
“Ka’Ana’Tyat is closed to us. When Ilek’Inari made his journey he found no opening, no break in the heart of the wood that revealed the entrance for which you bade him search. Only thick-entwined branches closing off every path that might have led farther. The women counseled me to seek the same opening, and I found none. Instead Ilek’Inari found una’re, and I, mareh’et. Two great beasts, and you saw neither.”
“No shaman sees the coming of every beast.”
“This may be so, but these were no ordinary beasts wandering into our land. They guarded the way into Ka’Ana’Tyat, our most sacred place. I say again, Ka’Ana’Tyat is closed to us, Ka’Vos. And with it, I fear we have lost the power of the spirits’ guidance.”
“You speak madness, woman,” he said, trying to put the emphasis of authority into his words, a tremble in his voice betraying his intent as he spoke.
“The spirits demand you lead us to war. Why do you hide it?”
“What?” He inhaled sharply. “How can you know this?” His mind raced. Llanara practiced her strange new magic, brought by the fair-skin Reyne d’Agarre—it was already taboo to mention it, claimed as it was by the women—but perhaps it let her speak with the spirits of things-to-come. A forbidden thing. His face darkened.
“Your new gift.” He nearly spat the word, answering his own question.
“Yes. It is written in the Codex, and Vekis …” She trailed off, tilting her head as if she listened to some unseen spirit. “It appears Vekis will speak for himself.”
A crystalline, four-legged serpent appeared on the floor of his tent, scaled coils looped beside the fire. Ka’Vos started, scrambling to his feet.
“What is—?”
You have led your people astray, shaman. The voice crashed into his head with a force that left him stunned, as much for its intensity as for speaking the words he had dreaded to hear.
“No,” he pleaded in a whisper, sinking back to his knees. “I have only tried to protect this tribe.”
Your spirits demand war, and if you will not give it, you must die.
His eyes widened. Before he could speak again, Llanara rose to her feet in a blurred motion, faster than should have been possible. Another pl
ea formed on his lips, and died there as she struck.
The world went black.
INTERLUDE
THE EXARCH
Living Quarters
Gods’ Seat
Paendurion roared, smashing a fist through the desk in the center of his chamber. In his anger he tethered the red motes of Strength without thinking. Splinters of mahogany scattered through the room, accompanied by a crunch as what remained of the desk crumbled into a pile of rubble at his feet.
His fist would bruise, but a simple binding of Growth would aid the healing, one of the principal advantages of Order magic over that of Balance and the Wild. As for the remains of his desk, the unseen servants who tended to the keeping of these chambers would have the mess sorted soon after he left the room. The least of the mysteries of this place that his people had called the Gods’ Seat. Paendurion had resided here since he’d first ascended to become champion of Order, so many lifetimes ago. This was not the first piece of furniture he had destroyed.
How had she done it?
That his opponent was a woman he was reasonably confident; one could tell, in the nature of the Vision binding that manifests as golden light behind the eyes. Subtle differences when a woman controlled a woman or a man controlled a man, a certain familiarity in the movements of one’s vessel. It was not a sure thing, but he’d had more practice with the leylines than any soul that had ever lived, or ever would, save perhaps only the Veil herself. And with the Goddess in stasis, in time he would eclipse even her skill. That was his right as first among the ascended, champion of Order, and leader of the Three.
And still, despite all his titles and past victories, he had been outmaneuvered by some fledgling come to her power in a single lifetime. She could not have known the urus was nearby when she sealed the barrier. Even Ad-Shi, who had been champion of the Wild for the same span of lifetimes as he had held his station, did not have sure knowledge of the movements of the great beasts, certainly less than would be required for the needs of strategic planning. Luck. That was all it was, and he was seasoned enough to know that in the end it counted for little. He calmed himself with the assurance that this setback would only make his ultimate triumph sweeter. This fledgling was good, but he was still Paendurion, called the Exarch in this age. He would find the would-be ascendant, and kill her, as he had done to all the others who’d sought to rise and take his place as champion.
Already his opponent had revealed too much. He knew she operated in the colonies of Sarresant, across the Endless Ocean, on the far side of the world. Such was the nature of peoples gifted with Order magic, to grow in strength as the network of leylines expanded, the network of territory loyal to a single throne. He suspected she had even been reckless enough to seal the barrier in person, judging from the strength of the counterbindings deployed against his efforts there. A bold gambit to take the field herself, but a tendency he could exploit in future campaigns.
Plans would be laid, and traps would be set. He would strike this fledgling hard, and snuff her out before even the barest hint of an ascension. When the moment arrived it would once again be he who stood to claim the mantle of Order. It would once again be he who matched wits with the ancient enemy, he who secured another cycle of peace.
“Another ruined desk, my friend? Or was it a table this time?”
Axerian stepped over the wood chips strewn across the room’s fine carpets as he entered. Almost Paendurion chided the man for failing to knock, until he remembered he had smashed the door off its hinges on his own way into his living quarters. Well, he was past the point of pretending defeat did not sting. Let his companions among the Three see the product of his rage; it was of little consequence to him.
“A desk,” he said, gesturing for Axerian to take up a seat on one of the couches. “And a worse setback in a single engagement than I’ve had since our first cycle.”
His friend whistled as he sat, swinging his legs up to rest on a neighboring cushion. “Too much to hope you exaggerate?”
He moved to one of the couches himself, quelling for the moment the rage that stirred within. “No. She’s cost me the bulk of my soldiers in the Vordu lands, across the seas.”
Axerian winced for a moment, then straightened where he sat.
“She? Some common enemy general, or have you found—?”
“I have found her,” he said, feeling a smug satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide. “The Order ascendant for this cycle.”
“Ah, Paendurion! First as ever. Ad-Shi will be delighted to hear the news; for all I know her search continues.”
He gave a confident smile. It was something of a triumph, to have sure knowledge of his opponent. Knowledge worth the matériel he had sacrificed, though the humiliation of defeat stung no less for it.
Axerian continued. “Where have you found her? And I suppose I can assume you’ve already planned the next move?”
“She is across the sea. A general of Sarresant, among their colonies. And my next move is a strike. Twenty thousand men pulled from the Skovan front, carried on ships across the sea to assault New Sarresant, with support from levees in the Gand colonies. With her city besieged, this general will commit herself to the field, and when she does, she dies.”
The words hung in the air as Axerian mulled it over. His friend had little enough grasp of military maneuvers, but it cost him little to humor the man with an explanation. Paendurion expected praise, but instead saw a frown creeping across the other man’s expression.
“Axerian? You disapprove?”
“No,” Axerian said quickly. “Only … Paendurion, have you ever lost control of a vessel, or a leyline, once you held it with the Veil’s power?”
“Never.” An odd question. “It is no easy thing to wield, but once I have established a connection? No, I have never lost control.”
Axerian frowned, deep in thought.
“Why do you ask this?” he demanded in a sharp voice.
“Because I believe it has happened. A connection lost to me, and a kaas-mage with it. A contingency activated with mere moments to spare. In the city of New Sarresant.”
Now Paendurion’s expression grew dark, his mind turning to piece together the information at his disposal. Only one of the Gods’ three champions, or the Gods themselves, could act in the manner Axerian described, and the Veil, their patron Goddess, was imprisoned here in the Seat. Improbable as it was, that left only one possibility.
“The Regnant. Or his champions.”
Axerian nodded gravely. “The enemy has never managed to pierce the Divide between East and West before the ascensions were complete on our side, but I cannot foresee another cause. And if the Order ascendant is in New Sarresant as well …”
“You fear they work in concert,” he said, a chill crawling up his spine. “Damn us all for fools, could it be true? How could we miss this possibility?”
“You are the strategist between us, my friend. I have a handful of agents remaining in New Sarresant, and I can ferry over more with your forces. And we can speak to Ad-Shi. Perhaps she has plans we might accelerate.”
“Yes. Yes, by the Veil herself. Twenty thousand men will not be enough; I will divert all the strength I can spare to this assault. We will flush them out, these would-be ascendants and the Regnant’s agents both, if we have to burn New Sarresant to the ground.”
“Very well,” Axerian said with a heavy voice. “I will leave you to make your preparations.”
Paendurion nodded as his friend swept out of his chamber. He was already working golden threads of Vision bindings spliced with the roiling blue energy they siphoned from the Veil each time they awoke. Other men might have shied away from this burden, from the deeds necessary to seize the power it required. Lesser men. He had seen firsthand the horrors of what would come to pass if they failed. One more city destroyed was nothing beside the costs he had already paid, and would pay again. He had long ago made his peace with choosing the lesser evil, to serve the greater good.
&
nbsp; PART 3: AUTUMN
SEASON OF THE NAMELESS
30
SARINE
The Revellion Townhouse
Gardens District, New Sarresant
She paced the length of the Revellion library, wearing a dark expression that matched the dawn light leaking through the windows. Sleep had come uneven when it came at all in the weeks since d’Agarre’s salon, and she’d spent hours pondering the events of that night, searching for answers. She’d come up with precious little, beyond the surety that Reyne d’Agarre had murdered the Comtesse de Rillefort, and tried to do the same to her.
She’d begged her uncle to accept Lord Revellion’s offer of protection, or at least to find shelter somewhere beyond d’Agarre’s reach. It had been so certain to her, in the moments after the d’Agarre manse, that she and all who knew how to reach her were in danger. Yet for all her impassioned pleas, her uncle’s assurance that none would dare defile a church had proven less naïve than she’d imagined. D’Agarre had been quiet. The city had been quiet. And still she was certain a shadow loomed across every quarter of New Sarresant, a shadow cast by Reyne d’Agarre.
“Tell me again, Zi,” she said as she pivoted to begin another track around the library’s outer wall. “You said the book was nonsense, but the comtesse seemed to see something of import, all the more so once you showed me how to remove the corruption.”
An old script, he thought to her. Very old.
“Do you mean it was written in an ancient language?”
Yes.
Her eyes lit up. This was new. “How old?”
Her companion writhed on the reading table, lolling his head over the edge while she paced.
“Zi?” she asked, voice touched with impatience.
Sixteen cycles.
She sighed. More cryptic answers. “Sixteen cycles, what does that mean?”
He only stared at her.
“Gods’ blessings, Zi, this is important,” she insisted, turning mid-stride to focus him with a disapproving glare. Still he remained silent. “Well, what about ‘Axerian’? The comtesse said it meant the Nameless.”
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