Linn reached out and took Nathen’s hand, turning a sympathetic smile on him. She was not her sister, but empathy was not exclusive to the Faeykin.
“There is no shame in what you’ve just said, Nathen,” she said. “I know it doesn’t seem like it. I know that I have a hard edge. But I believe in the White Crest.”
“Still?” he asked, eyes shining.
“I think,” she said uncertainly. “At least, I believe in what he was. I don’t truly know if Kole is right. I don’t know if he’s still up there. But if he is, I have to believe he’ll help us. I have to believe there’s a reason why he hasn’t.”
“This is the path we’ve chosen,” Jenk said and they turned to regard him. “No matter what waits at the end of it, we need to act together.”
They nodded and spoke no more. The echoing rush of the river soon regained dominance over the crackle of the fire as the Ember replenished himself with its dying. Linn laid down to rest on the hard stones, which, for once, were warm against her cheek. Soon enough, the others dozed as well.
Some time later, Linn woke and wiped the sleep from her eyes. There was a flicker of movement ahead and she froze, waiting for it to come back. After a time, it did, and she could not believe what she was seeing.
The firefly—green and pulsing—was the first living thing she had seen in the Deep Lands. Linn rose slowly and the light darted toward her. It was impossibly bright, and just when she was about to cup her hands around it, it shot back and vanished into the next sloping tunnel.
Linn followed.
As he stood under the unyielding orange stare of Creyath Mit’Ahn, Kole sought out the calm provided by his father’s steel-gray eyes. But Karin Reyna’s gaze was far off, looking through the fogged, torch lit glass of the west-facing window. His expression was unreadable, but Kole knew he was afraid—afraid of son joining mother.
Still, there was nothing to be done.
Kole bit back the sting as a pair of elderly smiths—a husband and wife who spent as much time arguing as they did fussing with the leather straps and brass fastenings—worked to adjust the black armor.
“Still, my dear,” the woman cooed as she worked to force the seams of his greaves under the shifting shoulder plates.
Kole was bare-chested under the armor at the smith’s request, and the gruff man pulled his hand back sharply when his knuckles brushed against the Ember’s skin. He shot Kole a glare and he responded with a shrug.
“He is a hot one,” Creyath said with a laugh by the door, his pearly whites glowing in the gloom.
The smith pointedly ignored the Second Keeper and stepped back to look Kole up and down. His nod, like everything else about the man, was curt, stiff and without warmth, but he seemed satisfied.
“By Man,” he said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Leave the boy be, Berta. Pull that shell any tighter and it’ll melt to him.”
Berta gave the final strap a sharp tug in response, cutting off Kole’s breath for a panicked moment before the invisible seams shifted to accommodate his lungs. He looked up to meet the penetrating twin gaze of the smiths. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder and studied their handiwork.
Truth be told, Kole did not see the need for armor, but the Merchant Council of Hearth now saw him as an investment, one to be protected.
The smiths grinned simultaneously, the only thing they had done together near as Kole could tell.
“That’ll do,” the man said.
“Aye,” his wife responded. “I’d like to see someone try to put a dent in that, Night Lord or Sage beside.”
“Well?” Karin asked, coming to stand beside him. “How does it feel?”
“Honestly,” Kole started, glancing sheepishly at the smiths, “It doesn’t feel like much.”
“That’s the point, boy,” the smith said. Give it a twist.
Kole did. At first, he doubted the armor would move, since it appeared as a solid piece of worked obsidian. As he rotated his hips and shoulders, however, the metal broke into myriad glinting scales and grooves to accommodate his form. He could feel the polished metal sliding across his skin, but there was no chafing. It was as if he wore a silk gown rather than a suit of armor.
“Brilliant,” Kole said, glancing down at the shoulder plates, which narrowed to blood-red tips. He still wore his thin traveling pants, but the smiths had fastened separate three-piece plates that ran from knee to instep. He tested a few lancing kicks and exhaled in satisfaction.
“Right, then,” Berta said, holding out her hand. “Onto the matter of payment.”
Creyath moved forward, his steps slow and halting. He deposited a mesh pouch into her hand.
“I trust you’ll have the decency to wait until we’ve left to count it.”
“It’s a small enough town,” she said with a wink and a wag of her finger.
The three men stole out onto the street, Kole marveling at the way his armor moved like a second skin. His twin blades rested comfortably across his back, freshly oiled by Talmir’s personal doctor. It was the Captain’s last favor to Kole before he made his way back to the gate.
Shifa barked and twined around his legs, starved for attention. She yearned to be back on the road with him, he knew, but Kole had decided the loyal hound had done enough. He would not take her to the peaks.
It was dark outside and the streets were largely empty in this section of town. The pale blue light of the moon was losing its battle with the growing legion of black clouds that now assailed the sky like a swath of drifting smoke. The sounds of battle could not be heard, but Kole could see the red-orange halo hanging to the west, the light of the braziers and the burning pitch below giving the impression of a sun not yet risen.
Creyath had moved off toward a street cook, the steam rising from a grill laden with fresh vegetables from the window gardens above, leaving father and son in the middle of the street.
“Amazing, isn’t?” Karin asked. “Even in the midst of all this, our people carry on.”
Kole nodded and the silence resumed.
“I’ll make it to the peaks, father,” he said. “I’ll find out what happened.”
“Your mother made it, Kole,” Karin said. “It’s the making it back you need concern yourself with.”
Kole did not turn to face his father. He steeled himself.
“Just try to make sure I have something left to come back to.”
A boom sounded in the distance that was too short for thunder—likely one of Balsheer’s casks going up on the other side of the wall. As if on cue, Creyath removed himself from his perch and waved for Kole to follow as he set off toward the north.
“I don’t think Creyath is the type of man to wait twice,” Karin said. “You should be off.”
“Where will you go?”
“I have business with the Merchant Council,” he said, some ice in his tone that made Kole turn.
“What sort of business?”
“I have it on good authority—my own, actually—that our mercantile friends have been hording supplies that would prove quite invaluable to Captain Caru and the troops.”
“Seems to be plenty of food in Hearth,” Kole said, indicating the street cook, who was now pointedly ignoring them, since they had not deigned to make a purchase.
“Hearth has never wanted for food,” Karin said. “Nor has the Lake. For all the nightmares this Valley has thrown against us, we have never wanted for resources. No, their hording is more of the martial variety.”
“Weapons?”
“Arrows, mostly. Caches stalked in their palisades on the edges of the Bowl. And I’d like to see those personal guards put to better use.”
They stood there in awkward silence once again. As impenetrable as Kole could be, Karin was doubly so. It did not make for a warm relationship, but it was not one without love.
“Goodbye, father.”
“Son.”
Karin reached out and placed three finders upon Kole’s brow, sending tingles of memory racing down his
spine. The gesture recalled a meditation technique Karin had taught him when he was young, when the fire was still difficult to control.
The First Runner of Last Lake moved off toward the east, toward the Red Bowl and all its horrors, and he took Shifa with him. Kole stood rooted in place for a time. Remembering himself, he moved off toward the north, following in Creyath’s limping footsteps.
He caught up with the other Ember in an oval intersection where six streets met. Though drenched in sweat—it was a hot night—Kole marveled at the fit of his armor and the way it allowed him to move without restriction. Now all that remained was to put it to the test, but that would come soon enough.
His blood felt hot as the white cliffs loomed above him, his legs itching to be set free in the fields separating Hearth from the Fork and the peaks beyond. Creyath was silent as they walked, so Kole matched him. The houses were more separated here and shorter, though of finer make than those on the interior.
As they neared the cliffs, they slipped from the blue shadows of the leaning buildings and crossed into a brightly lit area of white stone cobbles. At first, Kole thought the lighting to be the work of street mirrors, but then he noticed a sliver of moon peaking out from the clouds to the east. Shafts of lunar light hit the northern cliffs, lighting their face in a way that reminded Kole of Last Lake. He nearly had to shield his eyes before the smog took back the sky and plunged them into shadow once more.
The houses grew more spaced and more lavish the further north they traveled, undoubtedly the abodes of the Valley’s wealthier inhabitants. Kole wondered if the caves of the northern deserts had seen such displays of luxury. He supposed all cities did, if given long enough to ferment—to rot.
There was a sound like rushing, and Kole saw the white froth of a river up ahead struggling to rise over the cut stones that lined its edges. A small bridge spanned its width and they crossed, the cliffs looming larger with each stride.
Kole examined the white face, noting the guard towers poking out along the precarious expanse at the top. He was beginning to wonder if Creyath’s genius plan involved him simply rappelling down the sheer cliff face into the marshes beyond and swallowed.
“What’s the plan, exactly?” Kole asked.
“To get you out of the city,” Creyath said, guiding Kole toward a path to the northeast that brought them to a jagged expanse of stone that jutted out over the river they had just crossed.
Kole looked back at the guard towers, picking out the rough-cut stairway that led up to the heights. Was there another way to the top?
“We’re not going up,” Creyath said, noting Kole’s confused look. “We’re going under. Well, you’re going under. I can’t afford to get these bandages wet.”
“Wet? I thought this river passed underground. It’s too far to swim, and against the current.”
“If we can help it, you won’t be swimming.”
They stopped at the base of white stone where the grass ended. The outcropping was half again as tall as Kole and it shone like translucent marble in the spray from the surging current that passed under it.
“Took you long enough,” a female voice called down.
She was perched at the top with her shock of red hair tied back in a tail that hung down across her waist in the front. Near as Kole could tell, she wore the same black-red armor as him, and there were brightly colored sashes tied at each bare elbow—one green and the other yellow. Across her lap she held a spear that must have stood taller than Larren Holspahr’s, its butt held firm in a worn groove in the stone. The weapon, too, had colored streamers tied just under the head.
“Kole Reyna,” Creyath said, sweeping his hand out in a mock bow. “Allow me to introduce the most … colorful member of Hearth’s forces: Third Keeper Misha Ve’Gah.”
“If I could kick you from here, Mit’Ahn, I most certainly would,” the Ember said, and Kole was not entirely sure she was joking.
She switched eyes that shone near as green as Iyana’s toward Kole. She did not seem impressed.
“This is the hero, then?”
Kole shrugged and she mimicked him.
“I saw the aftermath of your little fit before the Western Gate,” she said, standing on long legs. “Don’t get me caught up in something like that.”
Kole looked askance at Creyath, but the Second Keeper merely smiled the smile that never seemed far from his face. He had been under the impression his mission would be undertaken alone. To send help, especially help in the form of one of only two uninjured Embers remaining in the city, Kole wondered if Misha was there to assist him or to babysit. Perhaps a bit of both.
He cleared his throat.
“If we come across a Sage in the north, I suspect my power will be the least of your worries,” he said. Misha did not answer, just looked at him, considering. She stretched and eased the tension from her joints. “Besides,” Kole was growing impatient, “I’d wager my ‘little fit,’ as you call it, did more to the Dark Kind than you’ve managed up in your towers.”
Creyath smiled again, but this one was strained. As for Misha, she froze mid-stretch, her expression shifting from sudden fury to what he sincerely hoped was surprised and grudging respect, and not an eventual promise to murder.
“Very well, my Ember Prince,” she said, dipping her own bow, her red hair brushing against the stone beneath her feet. She reached down and Kole took her hand, allowing her to pull him up onto the outcropping.
Together, they watched Creyath cross back over the river, each step looking decidedly more labored than the last. Instead of turning back toward the infirmaries to the east, the Second Keeper turned south, toward the red glow of battle.
“I knew it,” Misha said in a harsh whisper.
“Should we stop him?” Kole offered, earning an amused look from the other Ember.
“At least he’ll have other soldiers about,” she said, dropping down onto a small patch of grass on the opposite side of the ledge. “That’s more than I can say for us.”
Kole dropped down next to her, the white-foamed current raging to his right and the cliff face rising up to his left. There was a jagged pathway cut directly into the cliff face. It started just before the place where the white rock merged into the frothing river, which was as violent as the mouth of a sea drake, and Kole shivered despite his warmth.
How were they to get through that?
“Does the current slow deeper into the spur?” he called ahead. He saw Misha’s red tail bobbing in the trench.
“In a way,” she said and Kole sighed.
“What of the North Walk? Who will defend it?”
“Dakken Pyr,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s no Landkist, but he’s the most violent man I know, and I mean that in a good way.” Kole did not doubt her. “Besides, those poor things have been at the gate for weeks. They won’t try for the cliffs. Too steep.”
“Should be smooth sailing, then,” Kole said under his breath, but his voice carried in the sloping tunnel, the black skies being lost as the trench closed overhead and admitted them into the bowels of the spur.
“So long as the Night Lord doesn’t find us,” Misha said.
“Night Lord?”
“Four came against the walls. We killed three and the fourth went into the marshes.”
“Perfect.”
The Night Lord, or whatever it was, would come again. The Dark Kind had made Hearth their singular purpose. They would not retreat, no matter the cost.
The walls thrummed with the vibrations of the nearby river, and Kole could not tell if they were passing under it or beside it.
“Is there no other way?” Kole asked.
“Not unless you want to try for the gates to the west and south. This is the best way, so long as it still works.”
Kole did not bother asking what that meant.
As soon as the tunnel became dark enough for Kole to think about lighting his blades, it opened up into a large, hollowed out chamber that sparkled bright white with
the reflected light of hung lanterns. Here, the sounds of the neighboring river were even louder, the bass echoing and growing in strength as it rebounded off of the steep and cavernous walls. The floor underfoot was smooth as polished glass, and around them stood a full complement of soldiers, most of which held arrows nocked and pitched. A fire blazed in their midst and none looked pleased to be there.
The floor of the chamber was roughly circular, and Kole noted what appeared to be a jagged trench running along the outer edge that looked to be almost as deep as he was tall. Most of the soldiers turned to look at them as they entered the chamber, and most quickly turned back to the far wall, where a gray slab of stone stood out plainly against the white marble backdrop. On the right-hand wall, Kole saw a rough-cut opening that marked the entrance to another dark tunnel, much like the one they had entered through.
“What is this?” he asked in a tone that approached genuine awe.
“Don’t look too shocked,” Misha said. “The chamber is mostly natural. It was discovered generations back when a small child fell into one of the vents atop the spur. When they dropped someone in to find her, they both came out speaking of a chamber that sparkled like a thousand diamonds in the torchlight. The powers that be decided it marked an opportunity.”
“A means of escape,” Kole supplied as they came to stand before a stern-looking man in a bronze helm. He nodded curtly to Kole but his attention was firmly focused on Misha. Much to his chagrin, she ignored him and turned back to Kole.
“Tensions with the Rivermen were high at the time,” she said. “Ironically, it was one of their own that supplied the plans for the drain.”
Kole shook his head. He was through asking questions.
“Ahem,” the soldier grunted, color rising to his cheeks. He and the rest of his party were glistening like the white walls surrounding them. Kole could not tell if it was sweat or the invisible spray that seeped through the translucent stone.
“Apologies, Degan,” Misha said, not meaning it.
The two engaged in a discussion concerning releases, levers and drainage that made less than no sense to Kole, so he stayed out of it. The drone of the river was stronger here than inside the walls of Hearth. It took their words apart and sent them careening back into his ears like mutants of their former selves. He moved closer.
Valley of Embers (The Landkist Saga Book 1) Page 22