Jarva was not a large city and was certainly not fortified to endure attacks of this nature. The city had been the center of trade, a place where caravans of goods would cross the desert to the west and make their way toward more extensive networks, and ports that would take those supplies all the way to the northern continent.
Why had his contact chosen this place to meet? He knew it was in the heart of the war and would place them both in danger.
The answer was easy. It was because he was a part of the war.
He remained along the wall, pressing his back against the smooth stone, feeling its strength, waiting for another tremor or another thundering explosion that would send him into hiding again, but it never came. Thankfully.
He carefully moved back into the street, one of many doing so. With each explosion, the people hid—much like he had hid—before emerging once more to survey for damage. The temple had long ago fallen, reduced to little more than rubble under the explosion, leaving the city—and its people—without their religious leaders. How would they maintain that connection without them?
He moved carefully, hesitantly.
Jakob tried to remain as small as he could within Raime’s mind, but more questions came to him. He wouldn’t have answers if he remained so confined, but stepping forward any further meant that he would risk exposing himself in a dangerous way.
He looked up. The sky held a haze to it that looked like a fog had just rolled in, but he knew it was the dust of debris from the explosion. He recognized the signs of destruction all too well, but it never made it any easier for him to experience. The haze blocked out the sun, offering only occasional streamers of light. He pulled a cloth sash up over his mouth and nose, trying to filter the air and keep the dust from his lungs. Most who lived through the war had learned the value of doing that. If they didn’t, they ran the risk of coughing and revealing themselves if there were an attack. Attacks came often enough that they were something to fear.
He glanced over at a couple making their way along the street near him. Could they be soldiers? They didn’t appear so, and he saw no sign of weapons sheathed at their sides, nor of the belts their demolition experts tended to carry, but they also had grown skilled at hiding themselves, concealing their presence from others. It was possible that anyone in the city could be fighting on behalf of the Unbelievers.
He fingered the small knife at his waist. The blade had a sharp curve to it and was difficult to unsheathe because of it. Though there was a time when he’d worn it—as did most—as little more than decoration, those days were gone. More than once since the war had begun, he had needed to use his knife to protect himself. It was not something he cared to do, but what choice did he have, especially as the attacks continued?
More and more people carried knives these days, certainly more than ever had before. No longer decoration, it now had a more utilitarian purpose. If he could have found one with a straighter blade, he would have carried that instead, but perhaps the metal would not have sung to him quite the same way that his knife did.
Jakob took note of his host’s thoughts of his connection to his knife. He had a fleeting thought of teralin, but movement in the street caused him to put the thought aside.
He moved to the side of the road, keeping himself separated from the others. Any distance was good, especially as he didn’t know who he could trust, and who might attack.
Another explosion rumbled, though this was more distant than the last. He didn’t bother hiding in the alley this time, knowing that there was no point in it and that the buildings would not collapse from it. Like the others on the street, he glanced back and waited, his heart beating wildly and his breath held as he anticipated whether another explosion would come. Most had grown cautious, but most also had gone to understand the sequential nature of the attacks and had learned to take steps to protect themselves. It was one reason he was heading in the direction that he was, moving away from the source of the attack.
Would his contact feel the same way?
Perhaps it would not matter. If he could find his contact and learn what he knew so that he could document it, he could get away from here and make his way back to one of the safer cities, a place that may not be plagued by war as this one was.
He turned a corner when someone grabbed him.
The man standing across from him had a dirty face and yellowed teeth. His breath smelled foul—nearly as foul as the stench within the street. Raime jerked his arm back, trying to get himself free, but the man had a solid grip. Raime’s gaze took in the sword sheathed at the man’s waist as well as the belt he wore, likely explosives.
“Are you him?” the soldier asked.
Could this be his contact? Raime hadn’t expected him to be one of the Unbelievers, but maybe that was why he had come here. It would be a more dangerous connection to make, though perhaps Raime would learn more from the Unbelievers. Few had observed them thus far.
“Who are you looking for?”
The man grabbed Raime’s arm again. His grip became painful, and there was a manic look on his face. “Are you him?”
Raime watched the other man. This was not the contact. He would have made it clearer, and he wouldn’t have pretended to be one of the Unbelievers, not with what was asked of him.
That meant the man was a soldier. And the belt likely meant that he was one of the explosive experts—one of the men responsible for destroying most of the city—including the temple.
“Who are you looking for?” Raime repeated.
This time, the man grabbed Raime’s cloak. His face contorted in a sneer. “You’re not him.”
Raime tried getting his arm free again, but he couldn’t. It was trapped beneath the cloak and held by the man’s iron grip. He couldn’t even reach his knife.
“I am him.”
“Are you?”
Who was the man looking for? In any other city, Raime would have expected that he would have been granted a measure of respect, but here—and now—there was little of that. The Guild was an ancient and well-regarded entity everyplace else, but in Jarva, it was not.
“I’m a historian,” Raime said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the marker of the Guild. Would it matter? It was the only thing he could do with his free hand, and he wasn’t certain whether the soldier would even care about the Historian Guild.
The man released his grip on Raime’s arm and stepped back. “You are him. Good. Come with me.”
He spun and hurried down the street, leaving Raime staring after him.
What was this? Raime hadn’t expected his contact to be one of the Unbelievers—and certainly not someone who was responsible for destroying parts of the city. Then again, wouldn’t that be a way of getting information? If the man was able to remain hidden, somehow concealing his identity, why wouldn’t he pretend to be one of the Unbelievers?
Unless this was not his contact.
If that were the case, he was making a mistake by going with him.
What should he do? Raime wasn’t entirely certain who to expect, only that his contact would find him in this section of the city. With the violence taking place throughout the city, it seemed logical that his contact would have to be one of the Unbelievers.
Even if it wasn’t, could he turn down the opportunity to go with him? Even if it was only to observe, there would still be value in that.
Raime hurried after the man, catching him a short distance away. “You’re not what I was expecting,” he said.
“What were you expecting?” Raime asked.
“Not you.” The man grunted and said no more.
“Where are you taking me?”
The man’s steps never slowed. “Quiet here,” he hissed.
Raime looked around and knew that he should remain silent. It was dangerous otherwise. But where would the man take him?
That might matter more than anything else. If he took him into the heart of the attack—into the center of the destruction—Raime would
risk more than he had anticipated. It was bad enough coming to Jarva, but even worse to do so and expose himself to the possibility of death. At least when he had been on his own, he had known ways of hiding, places where he could conceal himself. Heading off with one of the soldiers would surely mean he’d find himself in the midst of the battle.
But wasn’t that what he wanted?
To gather the knowledge that he desired, he needed to risk himself.
Another explosion thundered through the city, and Raime tensed.
The explosion shook Jakob enough that he nearly surged forward within Raime to shift out of the city. He had to keep himself wound deeply within Raime’s mind. Keeping himself here in this way didn’t allow him to know nearly as much as he could if he exposed himself. He was confined to the things that Raime saw, but maybe he could gather clues in that way, and use them to help him know what more Raime might have experienced.
Why now?
What was it about this time—and this place—that had been important for Raime?
Unless what he was seeing did not represent important events for him, but that didn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense to Jakob. Why else would the strand have glowed so brightly?
The man ducked into a small building. The stone along the front had begun to crumble, and there were blackened sections that made it seem as if an explosion had taken place near here. Most of the building was still solid, but for how much longer? Would another explosion cause the entire building to come crashing down around him?
He couldn’t plan like that, not if he intended to learn from these soldiers.
Inside, the building was darkened, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he realized there were three others sitting around a table. A map was unrolled on the table, and Raime saw that it represented the entirety of the southern continent. Stones set on top of the map likely represented locations of attackers. It was much more extensive than any he would have expected.
Could the war have spread that far?
The men looked over to him as he entered and eyed him. One of them, a larger man with broad shoulders and a poorly healed scar on his cheek, shifted in his seat so that he blocked the map.
“What are you doing, Benham?”
The man with Raime stepped forward. “I am grabbing this historian before the others manage to claim him.”
Raime’s breath caught.
The other man smiled, causing the scar on his cheek to contort strangely. “They think to bring the Guild into this?”
Benham shrugged and threw himself into his seat next to the larger man. “Don’t make the assumption that just because they pretend impartiality that they actually are.”
“We’ve seen no sign to believe the Guild is involved,” the larger man said.
“No sign doesn’t mean that they haven’t invested themselves. They think too highly of their position in the world to remain impartial.”
“You believe the Guild think so highly of themselves?” Raime asked.
He should have remained silent, especially if these Unbelievers were part of the war. Considering their hide out, and the fact of who came after him, he had to believe that they were.
“Now he talks,” the larger man said.
“He didn’t say much when I found him, either. Not too many of the Guild do.”
“The serious historians prefer to have their tongues removed.”
Benham shrugged. “Some do, but I don’t know that I would consider them the serious historians. They might be serious about the perception of their craft, but I’ve encountered plenty of historians who preferred to be open about their observations—at least more open than their little journals would account for.”
Another explosion thundered, this one nearby. It was close enough that a trail of rubble drifted from the ceiling.
One of the other men sitting at the table grinned. He had long gray hair pulled back and tied with a leather thong. He glanced over at Raime, watching him for a reaction. This close to the action, Raime had been startled by the explosion, but not so much so that he would be frightened. If these men were willing to remain this close to the explosions, then it wasn’t likely that it was all that dangerous.
“Maybe we should take his tongue and see if he remains a serious historian,” the larger man said.
“What would that serve, Drash?”
“Serve? I think it would at least help me feel that we didn’t have to worry about him sharing what he observes.”
“And how are we supposed to get information from him?” Benham leaned forward, and there was a slight gleam in his eye. “Do you think that he should write it out? Is that how you would presume we learn from him? How long do you think would take for us to make him useful then?”
His presence here put him in danger. It put others in danger.
He started to turn, but Benham appeared in front of him faster than Raime would’ve expected possible. He had a sword in hand and glared at Raime, shaking his head.
“I think you’ll stay a while, historian. You see, we know the Guild has knowledge that we will need.”
“What kind of knowledge?”
“The kind that will allow us to end this war.”
“Ending the war means that you will defeat the gods.”
“Gods? Is that what you believe them to be? I thought the historians were trained in observation.”
It was nearly a slap. Raime resisted the urge to recoil. “I am trained to be impartial.”
“If you were impartial, you wouldn’t have made such a statement.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you don’t know nearly as much as you think.”
Raime looked around the crumbling room, glancing from man to man. “If I don’t know nearly as much as I think, then why have you captured me? What is it that you want from me?”
The man grinned. “What do we want? We want what’s in your journals. We want the secrets to your code.”
“My code?” There was a specific way the historians documented, keeping records in such a way that others would not be able to read them without access to what the historian held only in his mind. It was a safety measure, one that some of the earliest historians had chosen to prevent their knowledge from getting out to others who could not—and should not—have it.
How would these men have discovered that such a system existed?
The man nodded again. “You’re going to remain here and provide us with what we want.”
“And if I don’t?” Raime wasn’t about to be the person to reveal the secret to the historian documentation, but he was interested to know what they might do to him if he didn’t share.
“If you don’t, I think that I will have a creative way of demonstrating what we have learned.”
Benham’s hand rested on his satchel, and Raime resisted the urge to look down, not wanting to think about how he might use those explosives on him.
Almost as if to accent what he was saying, another explosion thundered.
This time, the walls shook.
Raime tensed, unable to hide his fear. He had never intended to come this close to the conflict in Jarva. That wasn’t his assignment.
Despite that, Raime couldn’t be responsible for sharing the code. He would fight, he would resist even if it meant using his otherwise useless belt knife.
Benham watched him, grinning as if knowing what thoughts were going on inside Raime’s mind. “You’ll tell us, or you’ll die.”
Deep within Raime’s mind, Jakob felt a growing weakness. The longer he remained here, the more he risked exposing himself.
Jakob stepped back, into the fibers. What had he been meant to see there? Why was this such a meaningful time for Raime? Had he revealed the historian code?
He could ask Novan, but Novan was north with the Antrilii. And what would it matter if Raime had?
There were other questions that came to him, specifically whether Novan had even kno
wn that Raime was a historian before joining the Conclave. In that way, was Raime that different from Novan?
More than that, he had seen Raime as nothing more than a man, and a devout one. That surprised Jakob as much as anything.
When had he gone from serving the gods to trying to steal from them? What would have changed for him?
Fatigue worked through him, and Jakob was dragged forward along the fibers. As he went, he noted other pulses along Raime’s path, places that would have been significant to him in the past. He would need to come back and visit those, as well; any time before Raime gained power would likely be safest. If he could know those times, he could begin to understand Raime, and might be able to find a way to learn where Raime hid. Already, he had more information about Raime than he had before.
Where was Jarva?
It was a city Jakob had never heard of. He could use that, could learn how it fit within the war that he had seen, and try to understand what role Raime had played in it.
He neared his own time and tired as he was, the urge to look forward overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t help but peer along the fibers.
There was nothing there.
Darkness. That was it.
Jakob attempted to push forward again, looking to untangle the connections along the fibers, but he was unable to.
The emptiness remained.
Did that mean that his possibilities had narrowed? Did that mean the darkness was now inevitable?
Within the fibers, Jakob shivered, unable to help himself.
He wanted to push farther, but he was too weak to keep looking, and he stepped back outside of the fibers and back into his body.
Chapter Four
When Jakob opened his eyes, he was still alone, sitting in the teralin chair, his sword across his lap. His weakness frustrated him. Had he more strength, he might have attempted to remain within Raime’s mind and release a little bit of the barrier he’d held, to borrow some of what Raime had known, but his weakness meant he might lose control and reveal his presence, and he wasn’t willing to risk that.
Jakob stood, stretching his legs. They had gone stiff, making him think that he had been in the chair for longer than he had intended.
The Great Betrayal (The Lost Prophecy Book 8) Page 4