Varick paced to the tent’s entrance and peered outside. “I knew how you’d feel. But this man you can trust. He has no interest in what the Tribunal seeks you for.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Look,” Varick turned to face Ryne, his eyes pleading. “I need you. I’m getting old. I fear I won’t survive another war. I have a wife and a son back in Eldanhill. I’d like to see them again. Near eighteen years since I last saw them.” Varick paused, regret written clearly on his face. “There’s not been a greater warrior than you since the days of the Shadowbearer War when Nerian struck down all before him. Watching you fight always reminded me of him. The difference is you’re on our side. Not only will I need you to train the men, but should this army attack as soon as expected, we can use you at the front lines. I can use you and that brain of yours.”
Ryne closed his eyes, mulling over the choices. The very reason he intended to head to the Vallum lay before him. Vengeance for Carnas’ people. Now, he was also being offered a chance to repay an old friend who stood for him when no one else dared. But could he take such a risk? If he suffered one of his recent cracks in control when in the presence of this High Ashishin, there was no telling what he would do. Would the control he’d found first in Halvor’s Entosis then in the one Sakari nursed him back to health within, hold?
“Besides,” Varick added. “This way you’ll get to Imbuer Adler faster than you thought.”
Too many chances were converging at the same time. Ryne shrugged off his lingering doubts. A step lay before him to be sure he could master himself in the way he’d found in the Entosis. And another led to a possibility of discovering the past that haunted him. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”
Varick let out a deep breath. “Good.” His teeth showed in a relieved grin. “Well, now’s as good a time as any to meet High Ashishin Jerem.”
As if on cue, a gauntleted fist held the tent flap to one side. A frail looking man stepped inside. He appeared ancient, wrinkles and lines by the dozens marring his features. The skin of his face hung loose about his cheeks and neck, in stark contrast to the skin pulled tight and shiny on his hands. His hair, so white it shone like new snow, reached down to his waist. A long wispy beard adorned his chin and stretched down to his stomach. When the man’s gaze passed over Ryne, his thin eyebrows rose. A glint of recognition flashed across his eyes. Eyes as hard as ebonsteel that sparkled with a youth the man’s apparent frailty belied. Where silver flecked Sakari’s eyes, this man’s were pools of liquid silver that radiated intelligence.
“High Ashishin Jerem, meet Ryne,” Varick intoned with his head bowed.
Despite his appearance, and long, flowing crimson and white robe, the High Ashishin’s robust stride resembled a young man in the prime of his youth. “I have heard much about you.” He crossed from the doorway to stand in front of Ryne. His head barely reached Ryne’s chest, but if he was intimidated by Ryne’s great size, Jerem didn’t show it. He looked Ryne up and down as if inspecting a strange creature he’d read about. His eyes drank in everything.
“I’ve heard nothing about you,” Ryne answered. Jerem’s aura shone so bright he almost averted his eyes. Instead, he forced himself to ignore the glare and meet Jerem’s uncomfortable, assessing gaze. Even without his Matersense, Ryne felt the power rolling off the High Shin in waves. He tensed as doubt crept into his mind once again.
Jerem smiled, exposing perfect teeth. “My anonymity is as it should be. I tend to keep myself from the forefront.” Stroking his chin, he inspected Ryne once more with the temerity of youth rather than the caution of a seasoned old hunter, making several grunts of approval before he nodded to himself.
“If that’s the case, why’re you here?” Ryne snapped. He frowned. He’d spoken without thought.
Jerem’s expression soured. “To the point. I admire that in a man.”
At first, Ryne thought his response was his lust rising. But as in the Entosis, the feeling was buried deep down inside. Sure the craving resonated, but it did nothing more. His answer to Jerem had simply been his own annoyance. “My apologies. Events have been hectic. And if you know me as well as you say, you know I have no great love for Ashishin or the Tribunal.”
Jerem’s face brightened. “Hmm. I see you have some restraint after all. Good. You will need it.”
Ryne found himself intrigued. “Why? What do you know that I don’t?”
“Well,” Jerem shrugged. “If you are to fight again, if you are to seek the vengeance which drives you, you need to be able to control your power. Destroying entire towns would only serve the shade’s purpose. Not to mention, such events would turn the entire world against you. Being able to restrain yourself while the power of Materialization pulls at you will indeed be an important step in your growth.” Ryne opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, Jerem continued, “As for what I know? I know events are at play here you cannot see or begin to fathom. A day will come when you will seek me. But until you learn to trust one such as me, that day is still a long way off.”
Manipulation, and feeling like his thoughts were plain, needled Ryne. He regarded Jerem with a flat, dead expression. “A day like the one you speak of will never come. Not after what your people did to me.”
“I assure you,” Jerem said, his face softening, his eyes piteous. “Those were no people of mine. For now, let’s begin anew with today, Ryne Thanairen Waldron.”
“That isn’t…” Ryne almost said it wasn’t his name. But Thanairen sparked a memory within him. A memory of a different time and place. Of a castle, courtyards, peoples who bowed to him. As quick as the memory came, it fled.
“Who are you?” Ryne whispered.
“Me? I am a humble High Shin who wishes to see Denestia prosper as she did in the days of old. Before Materforging corrupted the gods and the great Eztezians. When men lived in peace and our world was joined as one.” Jerem gave Ryne a knowing smile. “Denestia needs you for what is to come as she needs every man, woman, or child of any power. Allow me an inkling of trust to take you with us. If you trust me this once, you may find you may need such services again. Services I would willingly give in your quest to discover your past.”
Instantly wary, Ryne frowned. “In exchange for?”
“Like I said, for our world’s prosperity.”
Ryne was tempted to ask Jerem for his assistance, beg him for his knowledge, but the pain from his torture hung like a cloud about him. He would trust Jerem to bring him to the Vallum, but nothing more.
Jerem cocked his head to one side. “Enough talk about days long lost for now. We leave for the Vallum immediately. The Knight Generals are here.”
As Jerem’s words ended, the tent flap opened. One by one, Knight Generals filed in. First entered a meaty-nosed waif of a man whose white armor inlaid with gold appeared too big for his frame, but somehow he still managed to puff up his chest. Behind him strode a broad-shouldered, red headed man with bushy eyebrows. His armor was scaled leather with several metal clasps at the joints of his elbows and knees, each carved in the shape of dartans. The last Knight General was a man with multiple scars across his face and missing an ear. His left eye was so bloodshot, red liquid floated on his eyeball, and the heavy crimson armor he wore seemed not to hinder him one bit. Each man carried a sword at their hips and held their helmets under one arm. The Lightstorm insignia stood out upon each breast.
The men bowed first to High Shin Jerem, then knuckled their foreheads to Knight Commander Varick. Their gazes took in Ryne, and their expressions varied from lips curled in scorn from the Knight General in white armor, to wariness for the one in leather, and indifference from the scar-faced man.
“Are we ready?” Jerem looked from one to the other.
“Not quite,” Ryne answered. He linked with Sakari and told him to enter.
The tent flap fluttered ever so lightly as Sakari glided into the tent. Feet shuffled for a moment, and the Knight Generals gave Sakari uneasy glances, h
ands hovering over sword hilts. Then they suddenly relaxed and breathed easier as if Sakari was some peer they recognized.
“Now, we’re ready,” Ryne said.
Jerem nodded, and his wispy brows drew together.
Ryne chose the same moment to open his Matersense. If he was to test his limits, then touching his power while the High Ashishin Forged was the best way.
Mater swirled about Jerem, gathering in thick bands of varied colors. The essences flowed in such a condensed form Ryne found it difficult to tell one from the other.
Ryne’s Scripts writhed, and his bloodlust seethed, so he sought the calm pond as he did when he lay in the Entosis. The voices called to him, one yearning for violence, the other for peace. He allowed the differing pulls to mingle with one another. As they drew together, they stilled each other, and the craving within him dwindled to a dull warmth lost deep in his mind. At peace, he focused on Jerem.
The High Ashishin smiled and thrust his hand out, palm open.
Reality tore. It was as if the air in front of them split down the middle. The world screamed. Vertigo took over and with it came a falling sensation.
A moment later, in bright morning sunlight, the entire party stood at the Vallum.
CHAPTER 39
Ancel inched forward on his stomach among the tall brush until he lay where he could see down into the camp. To his left and right, Mirza and Danvir took up similar positions while Charra guarded their rear. Below them, wispy smoke curled up from the remnants of the campfire’s smoldering coals before dissipating into the still air. Overhead, gray clouds hung near unmoving, heralds of more stormy weather. The four Sendethi soldiers camped below hadn’t stirred in hours, and even their watch appeared to have nodded off. Dampness on Ancel’s back came from a combination of the wet blades of grass and his perspiration. Despite the cool predawn air, sweat rolled down his face. He licked his salty lips both from a need to moisten the dry clay his mouth had become as well as from the anticipation sidling through his body.
Swathed in darkness so she appeared no more than a silhouette, Kachien crept from brush to small tree a few feet from the camp. The lookout’s head dipped a few times, each time stopping before his chin hit his chest. Snorting, he shook his head. Kachien froze. The man mumbled to himself, shifted for a more comfortable position, and settled down once more. Moments later, a snore rose from his position.
Kachien darted out from her hiding place, her body leaning forward, an arrow destined for its target. She moved as swift as a striking viper. The soldier didn’t even manage a grunt before Kachien’s hands swept across the area of his throat. Ancel could picture those black blades she used, hidden right now by the darkness, slicing through flesh and artery. The man slumped forward. Kachien caught him and eased him to the ground.
Slowly, she stretched upright, her head arching back to the sky, and rolled her neck from side to side. Ancel shivered to think about the enjoyment that seemed to ripple through her body. When her stretch ended, her head pointed toward the camp and the unsuspecting soldiers.
Watching in silent horror, Ancel tightened his grip on the small sword she’d given him. His stomach clenched. Gasps to either side of him matched his own emotions as Kachien snuck in utter silence to the first sleeping soldier.
Again, there was a small movement, followed by a jerk from the dead man.
Without pausing, she eased forward, a silent silhouette of death in the darkness. A slight motion and a mumbled curse that died in his throat, the next soldier’s flesh met her blades. The noise woke the third Sendethi.
Judging from her earlier speed, Kachien could have reached the man before he rose, but she didn’t try. The soldier leaped to his feet, fumbling about in his boiled leather armor, the still smoldering coals painting his bearded visage with its ruddy glow. He snarled and snatched his sword from his scabbard.
This time, Ancel couldn’t suppress his own gasp with the swiftness in which Kachien moved. Her form was a blur flashing by the firepit. The Sendethi’s hand rose to swing. He never finished the attack. Black blades flashed across his armor parting it like paper. With a gurgle, he collapsed.
Bile rose in Ancel’s throat, not just from seeing the murder, but sick from what Kachien represented. He bit back the sensation, the sour taste filling his mouth. Struggling to remain calm, he eased down the hill the way they’d come, his legs and thoughts wooden. The feel of the grass and uneven ground were distant brushes against his boots.
How could he have fallen for this woman, this heartless killer? The quick deaths he witnessed moments ago, and the times she’d run off back in Randane replayed over and over. Was this to be his destiny? To be caught within the throes of his power with death being the only way to appease it. He squeezed his eyes tight against the thought.
Despite the revulsion he harbored toward Kachien’s acts, he also pitied her. To be unable to function properly until she answered her power’s craving was a burden he couldn’t begin to comprehend. How did she manage to live in such a way? Even as he thought it, he knew he’d do the same if given no other choice. The idea of killing himself to be free of such a curse was beyond him.
I must’ve been a fool to think I could control such power. Look what a monster it has made of her. What chance do I stand if and when the power takes me in the midst of my emotions?
When they’d fled back in Randane, the fear of capture had been overwhelming. Watching her moments ago, tension worming its way through his stomach, had brought on the same effect. Both times, all he could do was watch. Could he really find the Eye in the heat of battle, in the flames of rage, in the icy clamminess of fear? Uncertainty filled him as he trudged through grass laden with dewdrops toward the small hollow where their dartans were tethered.
Ancel glanced over to Danvir. He now understood how his friend must have felt in the tunnels when he’d openly wept about having killed someone. Not far away, Mirza strode, his face blank, gray eyes empty. Whining, Charra padded next to Ancel. He reached a hand out and trailed his fingers through the daggerpaw’s fur. No matter what, Charra was always there for him with no concern for what he faced.
They soon reached the dip in the land where they’d left the dartans. As they often did when Charra approached too close, the creatures mewled. Ancel and his friends hurried over and shushed them. Charra stayed just below the top of the slope watching the way they’d come as nearby trees cast long shadows with the orange hues of dawn now tinting the sky. Far east, red mountains loomed in innumerable plateaus and ridges, their ranges spreading north until they met and became one with the Kelvore Mountains.
Danvir gripped the reins of his mount and drew the beast close. “Did you see how she moved? How can any human be so fast and kill without flinching?”
“Of course we did,” Ancel said. “But at this point, it doesn’t much matter. She did what she needed to bring herself under control.”
“And you’re fine with it?” Danvir protested, his lips curling around the words, disgust twisting his features. “We just watched her murder four men.”
“I thought you’d gotten over this already?” Mirza said, eyebrows raised quizzically. “At least she didn’t turn on us. Not that I think she would, but if this is anything like Ancel said, then it’s the risk we have to live with in order to get home safely.” His voice was hard but calm. “You know, when she used her power to save us at the river, it was fine. Now it’s not. You need to wise up. You seem to forget the Sendethi soldiers have tried to kill or capture us. I, for one, intend to survive this. I want to see Eldanhill again. With you two by my side. I’ll pay any cost.”
Ancel blinked at Mirza’s words and his temperament. Mirza, who was so excitable, taking much for fun, who’d been fearful when they were in the glen, had become a different person. The events in Randane had changed him. Ancel hoped he could carry himself in the same way when the time came for him to take a life.
A low growl from Charra announced Kachien’s return. She appeared at the t
op of the slope and jogged down to meet them. The occasional twitter from an early morning bird interspersed the still air as they waited. Somewhere, an owl that should have been asleep already, hooted.
Ancel forced himself to meet Kachien’s eyes. The tight lines from earlier no longer marred her features. As much as she’d appeared haggard, now she was the opposite-calm, serene and full of energy. Her face betrayed no emotions as she stopped next to her own mount.
In one hand, Kachien held several sheets of paper. She waved them before her. “These soldiers were looking for you.” Her unyielding gaze took them all in.
Ancel took the papers, reading them wordlessly before passing them around. Drawn on the first sheet was a likeness of him and Charra. On the others were Mirza and Danvir. Mirza hissed and Danvir swallowed.
“And they carried a map of this side of the river. The path they have marked leads to your home,” Kachien added.
All Ancel’s earlier worry about Kachien’s darker side fled him, replaced by concern for Eldanhill. She’d saved their lives yet again. Ilumni smiles on those who follow him in many ways. Maybe Kachien was his way of smiling on them. Either way it was an issue for him to worry about later. He turned to Mirza. “How far are we from the bridge?”
“At least three days.”
“I still think using the bridge is a mistake,” Danvir said. “I have a feeling either Dosteri or Sendethi troops will be there.”
Mirza shook his head. “Unlikely. You’ve taken that route yourself many times. Only the quarry workers and miners use the path through the Red Ridge Mountains down to that bridge. All others take the ferries. If we stay as we are, we’ll skip the ferry landings.” He looked from Kachien to the map she held. “May I?” She passed the map to him. Mirza opened it up. “Look.” He pointed as they drew closer around him. “Here and here are the landings.” The areas he indicated were farther north and toward the Kelvore River. “We’re about here. From the route these soldiers marked, they assumed we would go for the ferries. We stay wide, push hard and we make the bridge. No one will be the wiser.”
Etchings of Power aotg-1 Page 35