He shook off the waking dream. They had been mages, and could be mages no more. They would fight bitterness the rest of their days. They might go mad, as mages denied the use of their light were said to. They would have families somewhere, most of them, and they would want to return and be comforted in loved ones’ arms, but they would fight pity the rest of their days, too, and helplessness. What the Ennead had done to them, no mage could heal.
But they had chosen life. They had chosen to follow him to freedom. He could not be responsible for how they used it, or hope for lasting bonds. He was still alone, in the end. No family to run to. He must see them on their way and then go on his. Whether or not he had anywhere to go.
As they came into full darkness, he let go of the future as he had let go of the past. He concentrated on the next step, on the feel of plain stone under his hand, on the cold smell of a rocky corridor new-cut in the mountain and not warded against damp. His nose caught a whiff of burning pitch as the passage abruptly narrowed, but he startled when splintery wood came under his hand, then the metal banding it. His fingers found a handle and the iron tongue that would lift a latch on the other side.
“Stop,” he said softly, before the mages blundered into him. “There’s a door.”
They stood for a few moments, silent except for labored breath. He could smell their fear, and taste his own.
“We could go back,” someone said at last. “Try a different turning.”
“No,” the boy said. “No. There’ll be doors at the end of the others, too. Or blank walls.”
“These tunnels are your mind, aren’t they?” said the rasping voice of the blind wordsmith. It was close beside him. He felt her breath on his neck. “You dreamed these passages. They’re a reflection of you.”
“I guess they are,” he said.
“They must have used you ill, that you could not even dream your way to freedom.”
Not as ill as they used you, Wordsmith. He drew himself up. “I’m going through. You should wait. Let me look.”
[20] He felt movement, and when she spoke he knew it for a shake of the head. “We’re together in this. Unwise, perhaps—but what’s left to us if they capture you?”
“A chance,” he said; but he grasped cold iron, levered the latch up, and pushed the wood outward to open their way back into the ancient corridors of the Holding.
Flickering torchlight, a tarry odor, a waft of smoke diverted into the doorway. In the more populous areas there were lampwells, not torches. Perhaps they had lucked out. Once he had his bearings, he might get them to the stables. He thought most of them could sit horses, and he knew which were the quiet mounts. He stood aside to let the three dozen mages limp and carry and guide each other into the greasy air of the corridor. He formed and discarded plans in his head as they moved. They would not do well on stairs: He did not know who watched the stables now or whether they were safe haven. Best to find a little-used chamber to hide the mages until he could see how things stood. He would scrounge food and water for them somehow—they were all skin and bones. Or park them in a pantry; who’d bother to prepare food now, with battles raging throughout the Holding?
“I don’t smell any lights,” the wordsmith said, her face raised as if she were actually sniffing the air. Mages could sense each other’s lights, some as a taste, some as a scent, some as a warm glow as from a candle’s flame. No warders or reckoners nearby, then; that was good. But it didn’t mean there weren’t stewards. Too many stewards supported the Ennead they’d served for generations.
“Good,” he said. “But stay here. For a moment.” He crossed the corridor to try a door on the other side. He heard someone shut the door they’d come through. Something told him to turn, make them open it again, not cut off the retreat. Before he could form the words he heard exactly the sound he’d feared: the tread of many boots on stone. Approaching along a cross-corridor. Moving fast.
“Friend or foe?” the illuminator asked him, as if stewards could sense in each other something like the quality of light a mage could sense—as if as a runner boy he was even a steward at all.
“I don’t know,” he said, but then they rounded the corner and he saw the ripple of nine-colored Ennead cloaks, saw pale faces never graced by sunshine floating over the dark velvet livery the Ennead had lately adopted for their private stewards. A dozen of them, with longblades sheathed at their sides. As they caught sight of the ragged mages, the first rank of three drew their blades, and the middle man of them called a halt and stepped forward.
“By all the spirits ...” one of the stewards murmured before he was shushed by the man next to him.
“What’s this?” the leader said. His glance passed right over the boy, found no one worth addressing among the half-naked huddle of adults, then [21] returned to the boy with a flicker of acknowledgment of his torn, but whole, black tunic and leggings. “A runner, are you? Where’s your cloak? What are these people?” He squinted again, at the mages. His eyes widened as he caught the glint of triskeles at their necks: the pewter pendants mages wore until the bonefolk took their corpses and left all metal things behind.
The boy thought quickly, his heart pounding. He didn’t know these stewards, and their Ennead livery meant that invoking his master’s name would not help him. Brondarion te Khine had standing only among stewards who opposed the Ennead. “The deepest chambers have been breached,” he said, and if his voice shook it only made his case more plausible. “The Nine sent me to get these mages out before the other stewards killed them.”
“Why would they kill them?” said one of the two standing behind the head steward, frowning. The other stood agape, his face drained of color.
The boy didn’t know.
“To deprive the Ennead of their lights,” said the leader. He’d lowered his blade, but was running a thumb back and forth along the crossguard. “Mages pledged their lives to the Ennead’s needs in defense of the Holding against the Darkmage. Rebels would kill loyal mages, not spirit them away.” He looked at the boy and came to a decision. “We’ll bring you to the presence chamber, it’s not far.” He spoke in headlong bursts. “The Ennead will be glad to see you and you’ll need an escort. We’ve put down most of the uprising but there are still rebels running loose. We’ll see you safe.”
No! Not the Ennead! He bit down on panic. What could he offer instead? Who could he trust these mages to? Who would be known to loyal stewards as loyal? He didn’t think there were any head warders anymore, and he’d never known any warders to trust anyway. There had been reckoners he trusted, once. Now there was no telling who remained in the Holding. Or what side they were on. “I’m supposed to ...” he started. No name came to him. “I’m supposed to bring them to ...”
“Out with it, boy!” the leader said. “If you’ve orders from the Ennead let me hear them or I’ll do with you as I see fit.”
“Saraen, you’re frightening the lad,” said the man to the leader’s right. Craggy-faced, with stooped shoulders. He had taken a step away from his commander. A subtle shift, but the wary evaluation in his eyes said he was wavering. The boy looked at the other stewards, saw shock mixed with some grim set jaws. He could use this, but he didn’t know how. One of the mages behind him was tugging on what was left of his sleeve, murmuring something in his ear. The sound was so low he could barely hear it, and the shapeless moan of a binder to boot. He stopped trying to evaluate the stewards, and listened. The sound resolved into a name. Pelkin? Pelkin had been head reckoner. Pelkin was dead, or pledged to the Darkmage. Wait, not Pelkin ... Burken. Yes, he knew Burken, a reckoner, a kind man others deferred to, [22] retired from the field. But was he known as a loyalist? One name could bring the whole construct of his story crashing down.
“I don’t care if he’s frightened,” Saraen was saying, we’re all bloody fr—”
“Burken,” the boy said, and swallowed hard.
Saraen frowned. “I thought he was staying out of this. But yes, all right. You’re thrice lucky
we came upon you in that case. The reckoners’ level is the least secure part of the Holding. You’ll need us to get there.”
The other stewards were shifting, murmuring among themselves. “What’s been done to them?” one burst out, a world of doubt on his face, doubt in. everything he’d believed about the Ennead he served.
“What had to be done,” Saraen said curtly. “They gave themselves up for this. Come on, you lot, turn out, it’s back the other—”
“By Eiden’s bloody balls, we did not,” the wordsmith said.
Dead silence followed.
The mages were straightening, standing taller, in bitter display of their own mutilation. The wordsmith let fall the stained gray strips she had been holding across her body, the remnants of white velvet that would have held such authority as could have made these stewards bow to her. “I was a warder in this Holding,” she said, “and two moons ago the Ennead bade me come to aid the defense against the Darkmage. It was not a request. They had use of my light, and that use required such torments of my flesh as nearly broke my spirit. Mark me, I didn’t pledge myself to that.”
“They never told us they were using anyone so!” cried the young steward to Saraen’s left. “Grieving spirits—”
Saraen had turned and struck him so fast that the boy didn’t register the blow, only the stagger and the other stewards catching him. The young steward raised his head and said, through bloody lips, “I pledged my life to them, and may all the powers of goodness forgive me.” He shook off his fellows, unbuckled his belt, and let his sheathed blade fall to the stone. His eyes were wild, dazed from shock and the blow. “May you forgive me, mages.” He turned and took two unsteady steps away.
“Hold,” the leader said, and the young steward hesitated, turned. The other one, the craggy one with caution on his face, had moved behind Saraen now, awaiting the turn of events. Good, the boy thought, that was good, the wordsmith’s words were convincing him, and now he was between the leader and the others.
Saraen said to the mages, “These are terrible times. The Ennead must take terrible measures. I grieve for your pain, but if what they asked of you was more than you could give ... if you regretted your pledge to serve once you understood what they required ...”
The wordsmith’s mouth twisted. “What I’ve told you isn’t enough, eh, steward? They burned out my eyes, that I might never scribe again, never [23] again wield a wordsmith’s tools. Their dark craft fed on my despair, their castings were fueled by the blaming light of my agonies. That is how they used me, and nonneds more—we you see here are but the survivors, those unlucky or late-come enough to have not yet escaped into death.” Ripping off the rag that wrapped her eyes, she cried, “We did not pledge ourselves to this!”
Some stewards cried out at sight of her ruined, festering eyes, some turned their heads, some cast beseeching looks at their leader, desperate for denial or explanation. The mages, pressed close for warmth and support, had instinctively been hiding or protecting their injuries, but now they spread out to fill the corridor, raising blunted limbs, letting filthy wrappings fall, opening their mouths. Some stewards at the back broke and fled, ignoring Saraen’s orders to stop. Helpless, swearing, he commanded the rest to form ranks and stand firm, then turned, shaken.
“Is this true, boy?” he asked.
The boy blinked. “What difference does what I say make?”
Saraen gestured at his clothes. “You wear the black. You serve the reckoners, and the Ennead. You’re one of us.” He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes going wild for a moment, then spat at the wall. “I can’t very well ask the Nine, now, can I? Tell me true, boy, or I swear you’ll regret it.”
The boy stood up straight and forced his shadow-haunted eyes to fix unwavering on the steward’s face. “It’s true,” he said. “And worse besides. I’ve seen it. I’ve been partly to it. We all have. Every steward in this Holding. The revolt is only the others trying to make good. Trying to stop it. As best they know how.” He had not strung so many words together in a long time. It exhausted him. Too much responsibility. Too long without food, water, genuine sleep. The battles inside his mind and out, the long upward climb to bring these mages here. They had suffered far worse, but that didn’t make his knees less weak. He was shamed to feel naked, trembling mages move close to support him.
“They should have told us,” Saraen said. His low voice was steady. His blade sank.
“I don’t think they thought they could trust you.”
The man rubbed a fist against his brow, his eyes shut tight, then mastered himself and said, “They were right. They could only have shown us. And they couldn’t.” He turned to his men. “But now they have. Are you—”
“Traitor,” came a soft growl, and then a sucking gasp.
The boy understood what had happened only when Saraen fell. It cleared the way for him to see the craggy man beyond him with the blooded blade. The other stewards stumbled back in confusion and horror.
“Did you think defeating the Darkmage would not require terrible sacrifices?” the man said to Saraen as he died.
[24] It had been Saraen’s loyalty he was wary of. The boy had thought he was swayed by the mages’ condition and considering taking over. He’d been only half light. He’d never been any good at gauging expressions.
This floated bemusedly through his mind as the corridor erupted in violence. Half the stewards lurched to craggy-face’s side as the others attacked with bared blades. The two factions were evenly matched. For one suspended moment, iron clanged into deafening stasis. Neither side yielded.
Then mages were pushing past the boy to fall upon the nearer side. The mages who’d been supporting him drew him back and away. Blood flew through the air as some of the stewards turned blades on the mages and the others beat back the armed assault.
There were nearly three dozen mages and only half a dozen opposing stewards. Craggy-face’s nearest cohorts went down under a mass of battering limbs. The rest, outnumbered, died on the blades of the stewards who had been their comrades. It was done in a matter of breaths, the stone floor of the corridor paved with death.
“Is that all they needed?” the blind wordsmith breathed into the awful silence. “To see us?”
The illuminator who had become her second raised himself from the crush of bodies, gave others his elbows to help pull themselves up, and staggered to the wordsmith and the boy and the weaker mages who had drawn back. He sank painfully to his knees on the blood-slick stone. Tears ran through the smears of red on his face. “It would seem so,” he said, over the sobs of men who had just killed their friends. “Perhaps ...” He took a moment to catch his breath. “Perhaps that is what we must do now. Show ourselves to the rest of them. Perhaps it isn’t too late.”
“Then you dreamed our way true,” the wordsmith said to the boy. “Your mind brought us where we needed to go.”
The boy looked at the corpses on the floor, at the shattered stewards beyond them, some on their knees beseeching forgiveness from the spirits, some standing in shock with their blades dangling from nerveless hands. Eiden Myr had never had blades before this last year. Eiden Myr had never had battles, or shed its own folk’s blood. This Ennead had brought the world to this. He would never make good on his part in it. He was just a frightened boy.
One steward had made his way through the carnage to approach the mages. “You’ll need care,” he said quietly. “You’ll need a place of safety. Let us take you to our quarters. We’ll do what we have to do to see you safe.”
“Will you help us turn the other Ennead loyalists?” the illuminator asked.
“We can try,” the steward said. “It’s too late, I think. But we can try.”
Another came up beside him, her face a mask of hatred. “We can get close to the Ennead. We can put an end on this directly.”
“Come with us for now,” said the first. “I don’t know how you got this [25] far, in the state you’re in, but if you can make it a bit farther
we’ll ... help, a little. As we can.”
Some mages had died on stewards’ blades, but more than three nines still lived. They looked done in, but they rose up, they lifted each other, they allowed the remaining stewards to bear them away down the corridor, to help the uprising as they-could, to do what they could against the Ennead. The boy hung back, and when the wordsmith, sensing his absence, called for him, he caught the illuminator’s eye and shook his head. The illuminator leaned over to the wordsmith and spoke. She lifted a hand in salute, and then was gone around the turn, leaving the boy alone with the dead.
He sank down cross-legged, put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and cried for a long time. Then he rose and went down the corridor closing the eyes of the dead. When he got to the end, he sat again. He was freezing. He could not bring himself to strip a corpse of its nine-colored cloak, no matter how badly he longed to wrap himself in wool-lined velvet. He knew he must get up and go on. But there was nowhere to go. He could still follow the mages and stewards—they’d be moving slowly, and leave a trail of blood—but he was neither mage nor steward, he did not belong with them, and he was too shamed and too afraid of how much he wanted to be one of them. He could go back down to the chambers where he’d left his master and his friend, but that battle would be long over, and he could not put himself in the Ennead’s hands again just for the certainty of having viewed their bodies. He could return to the passageways he’d dreamed, and drown in memory. Or he could leave the Holding, leave the reek of blood and death and agony and find true freedom, his heart’s desire, in the clean mountain air outside.
The Binder's Road (The Sequel to 'Illumination') Page 2