He pushed at the glass wall briefly, testing it, then settled back down to wait and plan. Baron Devin and the Gorrani must have arrived, might be attacking the walls of the Needle even now, but he had no intention of helping Father Dalton or Darius fight them. He could care less about the Kormanley.
But the University students in the room—Mirra, Jasom, Tara, the three others—they were his responsibility now that Jerrain and Sovaan were both dead. He’d see them free of the Kormanley no matter what the cost.
As the first rays of dawn began to lighten the horizon, Hernande glanced up toward the thin streak of light from the comet, now only two days away from its closest approach if his calculations were correct, then tugged on Marcus’ sleeve. “We should retreat inside before one of the Kormanley enforcers sees us.”
Marcus shifted toward the roof door that led down into the half-crumbled building, sticking to the fading shadows. Hernande closed the door behind them.
They found Artras, Cutter, Marc, and twenty Temerite watchmen huddled in the rooms below, the lieutenant in charge of the watchmen pacing back and forth. By the track worn into the dust and dirt of the floor, he’d been doing so for a while.
“What’s his problem?” Marcus asked as they joined Artras and the others.
“He feels he’s being wasted here, that he should be on the walls.” Artras shrugged. “Did you see anything from the roof?”
“Nothing. The Kormanley scrambled to man the walls at first, but they haven’t done anything but wait for the last few hours, just like us.”
“Lienta did say—”
A horn cry cut through their muffled voices and nearly everyone in the wide room looked up or stood, head cocked, listening. The lieutenant bolted for the doorway, halting just inside and glaring outward, his jaw muscles twitching.
“That’s coming from the Kormanley,” Marc said.
Before anyone else could respond, the thunder of drums rolled across them.
“The Gorrani.”
The Kormanley horns fell silent. Hernande drifted toward the nearest windows facing away from the chasm and the Kormanley’s section of the Needle, the others following.
“What are you looking at?” Cutter asked.
“The wall of ley. It’s still up.”
“Which means the Gorrani are getting ready to fight Baron Devin,” Marc said in understanding. “Maybe they’ll annihilate one another and leave the rest of us in peace.”
Hernande faced them all. “You forget Father’s prophecy. It won’t matter if they kill each other, it’s the Three Sisters’ quickening that destroys us all.”
A deafening roar—of a thousand voices—washed over them, muted by the walls of the building and distance, but recognized by everyone who’d witnessed the Gorrani attack on the Needle earlier. It faded, replaced by the rumble of thousands of feet as the Gorrani charged. There was too much stone between their location and the fight for Hernande to feel the earth trembling beneath, but they could hear the screams when the two forces finally met.
The faces of the watchmen around them turned grim; it was obvious they wanted to be near the battle. An itch began in Hernande’s feet and across his shoulders. He shrugged, but fought the urge to move. Artras also appeared twitchy, her hands clenching and unclenching. At a questioning look from Cutter, she snapped, “I’d like to be able to at least see the battle, that’s all.”
Hernande faced the windows again, then suddenly stepped forward.
“What?” Marcus asked, joining him. Apparently, they were all anxious. “What is it?”
“Is it my imagination, or is the ley wall shorter than before?”
Everyone crowded closer, peering through the window. Then someone cursed.
“It is shorter,” Marc said.
“By at least a few feet,” Artras added. “It’s hard to tell, since it flickers at the top, but it’s definitely smaller. And I don’t think it’s burning as intensely as before.”
“Iscivius and the other Wielders must be exhausted by now. They’ve held the wall for days.”
“I’d say they’re about ready to collapse.”
The lieutenant abruptly stepped back from the door and called, “At attention!” The watchmen scrambled into a semblance of order a few seconds before Lienta strode into the room, followed by three high-ranking officers. An entire squad of watchmen could be seen outside, huddled close to the building.
“Report,” Lienta said.
“We’ve been watching the Kormanley on the walls near the chasm,” the lieutenant said. “They do not appear to have noticed our activities here. Their focus has been on their own walls, although they have kept a cursory watch on our ballistae.”
“Good. The ballistae are going to provide a distraction, hopefully pull all of the Kormanley on the far side of the chasm away from this area. Our watchmen on the walls report that the ley has started to fall. Everyone here has exactly one hour to prepare for a crossing into the main part of the city and an attack on the temple.” Lienta caught Hernande’s attention. “You’ll be ready? Everything depends on you.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Lienta didn’t respond, merely stepped outside to pass on orders to those waiting there. The lieutenant motioned the men inside toward the back rooms, everyone reaching to strap on weapons and anything else they’d set to one side while they waited.
Hernande stepped away from the window toward the back as well, Marcus and the others following. He’d already picked out a secure location on the edge of a collapsed wall, one that gave him a view on the chasm, but kept him out of sight of the enforcers there. He hesitated as he stepped into the sunlight pouring through the broken wall, revealing heaps of rubble, but only long enough to take a single, centering breath. Then he picked his way around the debris to a roughly circular space he’d cleared a few days after Kara and the others had left. He heard the others following him, but he’d already begun his focusing exercises. As he pulled a candle from its niche to one side, the noises from the fight between the Gorrani and Devin’s men—along with the rattle and clank of Lienta’s watchmen—faded away. He placed the candle at the edge of the circle, in the lee of the debris there, so its light would remain hidden. From the same niche, he pulled out a small rolled rug and snapped it open, setting it on the stone floor of what had once been a ballroom. He knelt on the rug, centered on the intricate design woven into it in shades of brown, tan, and burnt reds, weight resting back on his heels. Then he lit the candle, the scent of the match sharp, stinging his nostrils, its yellowed glow as brilliant as the sun, the guttering of its flame like gusts of wind. His awareness of his immediate surroundings had already heightened.
He eased back, hands clasped loosely in his lap, back straight. He could see the gaping rent of the chasm through the crumbled wall, the slight promontory that jutted out toward the buildings, city, and temple on the far side. This was the narrowest section of the chasm within the Needle, the most obvious section for a bridge. Except he wouldn’t be building a bridge of stone or even wood.
He intended to build a bridge of air.
He filled his lungs, exhaled slowly, then did it again. He’d intended to use the flame of the candle as a focus, but he could already feel the meditative state rushing forward to engulf him. He’d been practicing for days now, so he wasn’t surprised. He opened himself up, let the calmness flow into him, fill him, like water filling a pitcher. He blinked a few times, then his eyes closed, yet he could still see the chasm and promontory outside the shattered wall. The water continued to fill him, and he sank into its depths, releasing his ties to the physical world. The scent of the smoke from the candle died out. The delicate taste of ash and stone faded from his tongue. The anxious rustle of Marcus, Artras, Cutter, and Marc silenced, followed by that of Lienta’s men. The weave of the rug biting into his knees and toes flattened out into nothing.
All that remained was his vision of the chasm, the jut of stone, and the buildings on the far side, the temple and the spire of the Needle piercing up into the sky beyond them.
From where he floated in the depths between consciousness and unconsciousness, he reached forward and began to fold the Tapestry into layer upon layer upon layer, each tighter than the last.
Marcus watched Hernande as he settled himself upon the small rectangular rug with what looked like a depiction of a sun at its center, surrounded by thousands of tiny symbols and pictograms. If it was a language, it was one that Marcus had never seen before. He wondered where Hernande had found it, although he supposed the mentor could have carried it all the way from Erenthrall after the Shattering. The University had been spared most of the initial damage because of its walls and the fact its buildings had been made of stone. Not many of those who’d fled Erenthrall had been able to take such personal possessions with them. Not many personal possessions had survived in the months since. He knew he’d kept hold of very little, although he had a few prized pieces in his room.
Hernande drew in several deep breaths, then stilled, his back rigid. His breathing slowed. His eyes fluttered, then closed. Slowly, his head sagged forward until his chin hit his chest.
Everyone around them quieted, even Lienta’s watchmen. The Temerite captain had brought twenty armed with swords and ten archers. With the watchmen that had already been stationed in the building, that brought the Temerites up to fifty, plus Lienta, Marc, Cutter, Artras, and himself. Not that large a force.
But all they had to do was get to the Nexus and hold it until Kara could finish her work in Erenthrall. Assuming Morrell could repair the node in Tumbor.
For a moment, the impossibility of it all overwhelmed him.
Then Artras tugged on his arm. “Is he even breathing?”
He pulled himself back into the moment to focus on Hernande again. “I’ll check.”
He edged through the rubble to Hernande’s position, careful to keep out of sight. He crouched down at Hernande’s side, leaned in close.
The University mentor didn’t move. Marcus shifted closer, so he could listen for Hernande’s breath as he watched the man’s chest.
Nothing happened for what felt like an eternity. Then Hernande’s chest rose slowly. He exhaled even slower, the entire process taking at least ten of Marcus’ own breaths. Then the mentor stilled again.
Marcus’ skin prickled with unease, but he pulled back and made his way toward the others.
“He’s breathing. Barely.”
“He said he’d be so far under that we could move him,” Artras said, “but he didn’t warn us he’d basically be dead.”
“He’s not dead.”
“Did you listen for a heartbeat?”
Marcus didn’t answer.
“How will we know when we can move across?” Lienta asked. Marcus hadn’t realized he’d shifted close enough to overhear them. “I’m not asking any of my watchmen to walk out into thin air to test it out.”
The men close behind him pretending they weren’t listening in began to fidget.
Marcus glanced around at the rest of them. Artras shrugged.
He contemplated Hernande for a long moment, then said, “Wait here.”
Before anyone could protest, he climbed up the small pile of rubble and stepped out onto the jut of rock that protruded into the chasm. It had once been part of a decorative garden, with a flagstone walkway and patches of earth where grass and shrubs and flowers had grown. Now it was riddled with weeds, the flagstones canted or broken. As he walked up to the edge of the chasm, he reached down and scooped up a few chunks of stone.
He stared down into the rent in the earth stretching away to either side, slicing down through the city and its walls. Water cascaded down into the darkened depths in various places from underground streams. A few ley lines were visible as well, angled toward the Needle, throbbing with white light.
He gazed across toward the buildings on the far side, noticed a few Kormanley guards take notice of him. He waved, then hefted a stone in one hand and casually tossed it out into the chasm.
It struck something in midair and bounced off to one side.
Marcus choked on his next breath as something lodged in the back of his throat. He shot a look toward the Kormanley to see if they’d noticed, but they weren’t watching him anymore. Still, sweat prickled his forehead as he bent down and tossed a handful of dirt and sand toward the edge of the chasm a few feet away.
Most of it hit something that wasn’t there, remaining suspended in air, a few pebbles bouncing and rolling out another foot or two from the edge. To either side, the dirt fell into the chasm.
Marcus stood slowly, tossed a few more of his stones out toward the abyss as if bored, then forced himself to walk slowly back to the darkened ballroom.
As soon as he was out of sight of the Kormanley guards, he said, “The bridge is already there. It’s about five feet across. We’ll have to be careful, but we can cross now.”
“What about the Kormanley?” Marc asked.
“There are four guards directly across from us, but they aren’t particularly vigilant right now. There are more to the north and south.”
“We should wait for the ballistae to begin their bombardment,” one of Lienta’s lieutenants said.
The Temerite captain considered. “We don’t know how long Hernande can hold the bridge. Send one of the watchmen to the ballistae. Tell them to begin their assault now.” The lieutenant immediately turned and selected someone, the man running back into the inner rooms. “We’ll send the archers across first. They can take out the Kormanley as they go.”
“They won’t know where the bridge is,” Artras said. “You’ll lose half of them because they’ll be trying to shoot and walk across nothing at the same time. It won’t work.”
“I’ll go first,” Marcus interrupted, already impatient. “I’ll mark the bridge with dirt so that everyone can see it. Someone get me a pouch and fill it.”
Lienta snapped his fingers and five men began scrambling to empty out a sack and fill it with whatever they could find inside the hall.
“I’ll follow you,” Cutter said. He rolled his wounded shoulder, stretching it out, then began to string his bow. “It’s time I started putting all of my efforts to practical use.”
No one questioned him.
One of the guards set to keep watch suddenly shouted. “Captain Lienta! The ley wall!”
Everyone headed toward the inner rooms and the windows that allowed them to see the ley wall, but Lienta ordered all but one of his lieutenants back. Marcus, Artras, and Cutter joined them.
All along the outer wall, the fiery ley wall was in flux, its flames shooting high, then collapsing again, rising and falling in waves around the perimeter.
“It’s failing,” Artras said curtly. “They’re fighting to keep it up, but it’s failing.”
“We may not need the ballistae as a distraction after all.”
Without a sound, the entire ley wall sank out of sight.
A hush fell, everyone in the room holding their breath. Lienta looked up.
Marcus started when the horn sounded, closer than he expected.
“The ley wall is down,” Lienta said, stalking back toward the demolished ballroom. As soon as he entered, he asked the watchmen, “What are the Kormanley doing?”
“They’re scrambling for the outer walls!”
“What about those at the chasm?”
“Those closest to the outer walls are leaving. Most of those stationed farther in as well. The four nearest our position are agitated, as if they don’t know what they should do. It appears the one in control is ordering them to stay. They’re arguing.”
“We aren’t waiting—for them or the ballistae. Marcus and Cutter, the bridge.”
Marcus ha
d already snagged the bag of dirt from the watchmen. He sprinted up the debris and out onto the promontory of rock, not even looking toward the far side, his eyes locked on the few specks of dirt and stone that appeared to be hanging in midair. Reaching into the bag as he ran, he grabbed a handful and threw it out ahead of him, slowing only as he neared the edge of solid stone. His heart faltered once, painfully, a rush of adrenaline shivering through his body, as he took the first step out into what appeared to be a vertical drop into nothing. But his foot landed on a solid surface, the dirt he’d already thrown grinding under his heel. Emboldened, he continued forward, tossing dirt and stone before him, making certain he spread it wide enough that the edges of the bridge could be easily seen. Shouts echoed across the chasm, but he didn’t dare look up. Behind him, he heard Cutter swear, followed by the sound of feet crunching on gravel and the snap of an arrow being released. Two more shots and Marcus was standing over nothing, the gaping maw of the chasm below. His breath began to catch in his throat, drowning out the growing shouts from both ahead and behind. He began to shake, an involuntary reaction to the impossibility of what his eyes were convinced was a drop to his death. But he forged onward, throwing dirt haphazardly now, intent only on getting to the far side safely, before something happened to Hernande and the bridge vanished. An arrow skittered across the invisible surface at his feet and he nearly jerked to the side and over the edge. Another shattered as it struck, flecking him with slivers of wood. But then he could see the rugged chasm wall before him, its edge near. He glanced upward with an inarticulate cry of relief—
And saw one of the enforcers waiting for him at the makeshift wall they’d erected at the chasm’s edge, sword at the ready. The man grinned in anticipation, stepping up onto the top of the wall and over. He’d already thrown gravel over the edge, outlining the bridge, his foot kicking a chunk to the side and over into the chasm. His eyes didn’t waver.
Marcus halted, began to step back. But an arrow sprouted in the enforcer’s throat. The man staggered against the chasm wall in surprise, then slumped to the side and fell off the bridge. His body struck the chasm wall and flailed as it faded into the darkness below.
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