“Our strengths will be parceled among our children and theirs and theirs until evil such as Atol’s becomes impossible,” Cuman said. “The glory of Aer, Iosa, and Gaoithe will fill this world in a new way.”
The Trian spoke from behind him. “Imprisoned is not the same as dead.”
They all knew the Trian well enough to understand his unspoken question, his accusation.
Endela nodded. “Should the need arise, our descendants will have a way to call you for help. I will craft words to accompany the liturgy Aer has given Cuman. We will teach them to our children, and they will teach them to their children after us, time without end.”
“And we will be standing guard,” Ealdor said, “should your descendants need us.”
The Trian nodded, but whether in approval or acknowledgment, he couldn’t tell.
Cuman pointed over Ealdor’s shoulder to the prisoner. “Come. Endings and beginnings await us. Our decisions have been made, and the rest of those who have chosen to diminish await us on the southern continent. It is past time we put this abomination away.”
Ealdor turned to speak to the Dara and the Trian. “Close the prison.” He took a deep breath that felt oddly cleansing, as if his brother’s certitude had somehow made a home within him. Odd that Cuman should be able to influence him in such a way after choosing to surrender everything that defined him. “The three of us have countless turnings of work ahead of us, and now I find myself impatient to begin it.”
The Dara’s brows lifted. “Will you deny Atol his last speech?”
Behind the shimmering wall of force that kept the last of the three imprisoned, Atol glared at him. Perhaps he had been able to discern what they spoke of without sound, but it hardly mattered.
“Yes,” Ealdor said, nodding. “I will. I have no desire to hear all the voices he has taken unto himself. Let us see if they are enough to keep him company until Aer makes an end of all things.”
Bealu must have caught some hint of Ealdor’s decision. Despite the impossibility of breaking the resonance field he thrashed and strained, his face purpling until the pure metal walls of the prison closed around him. At the last, he locked gazes with Ealdor and screamed, his throat cording with the effort as blood vessels burst beneath his skin. Though muted, his words were clear. “Behold! I have a new name!”
Ealdor rebuked the premonition that arose in him. “Then let it keep you company, however you’re named, through the endless night.”
They stood then, watching as the machines joined the halves of Atol’s eternal prison together into a seamless whole and lowered it into the pit.
After the cube had been buried, the canyon filled, and Cuman and Endela had departed to the southern continent, the three of them—priests who’d become beings of war—stood together.
“What are your orders?” the Dara asked.
Ealdor pursed his lips and shook his head. “I have none. From this moment, we are no longer priests or soldiers, but wardens. You know this and the tasks that await us.” He straightened, shouldering the burden that would belong to him. “We are the last of our kind. Our memory must pass from the earth.”
The Dara and the Trian nodded, and to their credit they paused for only a moment’s reflection before they appropriated Cuman’s admonition against long farewells, each moving to take fyrlen platforms to the duty that awaited, the Dara leaving first for the south, and then the Trian departing to the western continent, his platform shrinking in the distance.
Despite himself, Ealdor watched them recede into the sky until they were lost in the distant blue. With a sigh he turned to the first task. Though he had countless turnings to complete it, he found himself oddly eager to begin, as if the destruction of the evidence of their race was part of the price Aer had commanded.
He strode over to the machinery that had been used to lower Atol’s prison into the depths of the earth. Methodically, he began the penance for his race and commenced the process of taking it apart, reducing it to pieces that would disintegrate to nothingness before Cuman’s descendants found their way back.
The vision stopped, and I was Willet Dura once more. My companions wore the same expressions of shock as I. Tears coursed down Custos’s cheeks and Mirren wept softly. The remnant of Ealdor stood among us, his stole still draped over his shoulders, but his appearance had changed, the last impression of solidity dropping from him as though he’d become a dying memory. And it continued. My friend became more insubstantial with each passing moment. “Aer forgive me,” I choked.
He looked down through his body with no more concern than if I had told him he had a spot on his stole. “I chose to break the binding, Willet. I chose, not you. Aer told us to cleanse the earth, but we—I—wanted vengeance. We buried Atol and those he’d taken unto himself, binding ourselves with our power, constraining our actions with vows that couldn’t be revoked.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“We held eternity and power that would have made us gods among men.” Ealdor nodded to himself. “We had seen what Atol and the rest had become, and more, we knew the long dark of loneliness that awaited us. We had no intention of wasting our victory by becoming god-kings in his place.”
“The children’s rhymes,” Gael said. “You couldn’t appear unless you were called.”
Ealdor nodded. “We wanted to give you the chance we squandered.” He smiled at me. “Your intuition reminds me so much of . . .” he stopped, choking over a name that wracked him with pain. “My friend,” he said instead and continued. “We created the gift of kings for many purposes, but the summoning was one of them. You will need all six.”
I didn’t want to lose my friend. Not again. “Is there any way to restore you?”
He gave me a sad smile. “You didn’t meet the requirements of summoning. I came to you because I’m your friend and the thing we imprisoned must not be set free.”
Ealdor’s face twisted in pain again. His wraith-like hands clenched against his dissolution, struggling to keep it at bay for as long as he could. “When Cesla entered the forest, I had enough strength to stop him or save you, but not both. When he delved the prison, he left himself open to Atol’s control, but Cesla’s mind still lives beneath the weight of the Fayit who control him.”
“You should have let me be taken,” I said. But even as the words left my mouth, I shuddered in revulsion and horror.
Ealdor mustered the strength to smile. “I sensed something about you, a suggestion of my old gift. This time I chose mercy instead.” Ealdor vanished completely below the waist. “Should Atol gain his freedom, you will find yourself fighting one of the Fayit in truth. I have to return to Aer.”
The last impression of him thinned, like a puff of smoke on the air. Panic burst through me. The names! “Wait! I don’t know their names. You never used them!” I lurched toward him, reaching, but my arms passed through the mist he’d become.
“Atol’s attack on you allowed me to trick the binding,” he whispered. “Look inside your mind.” He dissipated until nothing remained. Ealdor was gone.
I sat at the table in the village of Localita north of Cynestol and looked around. Nothing had changed. The shadows cast by the southern sun were neither longer nor shorter than they’d been before Ealdor’s appearance. My friend’s last visitation had taken only an instant.
Yet my surroundings, the buildings, the jaccara trees, even the table where I sat in dumbfounded silence appeared strange to me, their easy familiarity and accustomed solidity riven by memories ancient beyond reckoning.
And my friend was gone.
Panic and grief wracked me, refusing to let me go and I panted for breath until spots gathered in my vision. Gael folded me in her arms, giving me a measure of calm. I gathered Ealdor’s memories and placed them behind a door that I marked with his name. Before all else, the history of his race, our ancestors, needed to be safeguarded. I looked at Custos. “You have to go back to Cynestol. Safeguard Ealdor’s history. Write i
t down,” I said, “as many times as it takes for you to guarantee its safety.”
His eyes were wide with wonder. “I’ll write it, Willet, but no one will believe.”
My shoulders curled as I tried to protect myself from grief. “It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t be lost. If you can’t write it as history, then write it as a tale.” I had nothing else to say, I was too busy trying to put meaning to what I’d seen.
“We’ll have to make arrangements for Ariella and Oronelle to be returned to their family,” Bolt said. A moment later, he raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he lifted his head, he looked angry, which meant he looked the same as always. “You’re a lodestone for trouble, Dura. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know,” I said. Under the circumstances it was impossible to argue with him. I glanced at Custos. “Can you see the girls safely back to Cynestol?”
After he nodded, I caught Gael peering at me, the perfect arch of her brows phrasing the question despite her silence.
“We have to get the six together,” Bolt said.
“North,” I said, “at the forest.” My insides hollowed out at the thought of coming within sight of the Darkwater. “Most of the kings and queens are there already.”
“I’ll tell Herregina she’s not going back to Cynestol,” Mirren said. “The news will be less of a shock coming from one of her subjects.”
“What will you do if she objects?” Bolt asked.
Mirren shook her head. “I don’t think she will. I’m going to show her Ealdor’s memories first. The people of Aille, even the nobility, have a keen sense of duty. It’s what allows us to work small jobs in pointless ministries year after year. She’ll come.”
Chapter 47
“We don’t have to go to the forest, Willet,” Gael said. “Send messengers. Bring the kings and queens here.”
“We may not have that much time,” I said. “Rymark and Ellias are fighting a battle they can’t win. They’ve set up a cordon around the forest. They’ll kill any trying to go in, and they’ll kill anyone coming out. Atol’s goal isn’t to defeat Rymark—he wants to escape.”
Bolt’s squint turned ugly. “Most of those who get through won’t even be trying to come out. They’ll be trying to break the prison.”
“Do we have time to stop this?” Mirren asked.
“There’s no way to know,” Bolt said. “We have to hope Rymark and Ellias have realized what’s happening. I’ll send word by carrier bird.”
“It won’t help,” I said. “They can’t go into the forest.”
He shook his head in disgust. “I hate it whenever I have to admit you’re right. It makes my skin crawl.”
“If we can summon the Fayit, we won’t have to fight Cesla or the Darkwater. They’ll fight for us,” I said.
“You don’t know that they will,” Gael said. “Or if they even can.”
“We can’t count on having enough time to meet anywhere else,” Bolt said. “We’re going to the forest, but not directly.”
“Why not?”
“King Boclar isn’t at the Darkwater.”
A flush of anger narrowed my vision for a moment. No one had bothered to tell me. “Pellin’s doing it again,” I said. “He and Toria Deel. They’re keeping me ignorant. Is that ever going to stop?”
Bolt shrugged as if my anger and objections were unimportant. “Probably after they’re dead, assuming you outlive them. Since we can’t return to Cynestol, our best chance of contacting the kings and queens will be at Vadras. We can use Boclar’s scrying stone rather than sending birds. Rymark’s encampment is a long way from Frayel and Collum. We’ll need to give Cailin and Queen Ulrezia as much of a head start as we can.”
“That’s assuming you can convince them of your plan, Willet,” Gael said.
“Let’s start with Boclar,” I said. “If we can convince him, he can help us with the rest. How long to Vadras?” I asked Bolt.
“Four days if we change horses often and ride straight through. But I’m not familiar with this region—we’ll need a map.”
“My family is from this part of Aille,” Mirren said. “I can guide you.”
I stood. “In the morning, then.” Bolt preceded Gael and me out the door and up the stairs to our rooms. On the third step, Gael’s hand found mine and we tarried, waiting for Bolt and the rest to draw ahead.
“You’re hiding something from me,” she said.
I didn’t bother to deny it. Gael knew me too well. We came to the landing, and she took the opportunity to let her lips brush mine. I pulled her close for a kiss that lingered and held her until she pulled away. “While I appreciate and commend your efforts to distract me, Lord Dura, I think you should tell me, one of your guards, what you intend.”
The heat faded, sluiced away by fear, and I pulled a deep breath. “I don’t intend anything,” I said, my voice soft because I didn’t want to hear out loud what I’d hidden in my heart. “Have you ever been in a situation and your options keep narrowing down toward a single terrible outcome?” I waited for her to nod, before I went on. “And all along you say to yourself ‘everything will be okay as long as this doesn’t happen.’ And then slowly, inexorably, every other possibility and hope is taken from you until the worst outcome happens.” I pulled a breath against a weight in my chest. “Then you find in the midst of your despair that you’ve underestimated your greatest fear.”
She kissed me again, her gaze finding mine. “You know that happened to me, Willet, but you changed the game. You saved me.” Her fists knotted in my tunic. “What is it? Let me save you this time.”
I pulled her close and held her. “For ten years I’ve managed to stay out of sight of the Darkwater,” I said. “I haven’t even seen it in the distance except in my worst nightmares, but all the other options are fading away, and the forest is pulling me back.”
She took my hand and led me upstairs to the oversized room we shared with the rest of our company. Bolt nodded to us as we came in the door and took his position by it in case murder woke me in the middle of the night.
Later, in the dark, I didn’t hear Gael come and lie beside me, but I could smell her scent, soft and floral, as she put one arm protectively around me. I cast back for the memories of the last war and lived them again—the desperate run into the forest, the decision to enter the Darkwater, the dying light of sunset. But the memories stopped, and my mind skipped forward to the morning I walked out of the forest alone. I knew the men who ran into the forest had survived, but my mind refused to remember anything at all about my time there.
The next morning we purchased the best mounts we could buy and set a pace toward Vadras that would spend the horses within hours. “Tell me,” I called to Bolt, “why we didn’t bother to bring supplies with us.”
“Because we won’t need them,” my guard said. “The southern end of the continent is far more heavily populated than Collum or even Owmead. There will always be a village or town within reach, and worrying over supplies will just slow us down.”
Behind me, the newest member of Aille’s nobility rode sandwiched between Gael and Mirren, her gaze serious but unafraid.
“Does she understand what we’re riding into?” I asked.
Bolt snorted. “Do you?”
I nodded. “I’ve spent ten years dreading the Darkwater Forest, and my time with the Vigil and Ealdor has served to put that decade of fear into a context I’d rather not have.”
“True enough, but we have a saying.”
I sighed. “Of course you do.”
Ignoring me, he continued. “‘If you think you’ve reached the point where you can’t learn anymore . . .’”
“‘Then you won’t,’” I finished for him, shaking my head. “I know how it goes.”
“That’s not all of it. The rest goes ‘because you’ll be dead.’ Most people conveniently forget that last part.”
“You’re always so cheerful in the morning. What kind of man is the king of Caisel?” I
asked.
“He’s old, Willet. Even before the death of Laidir, he was the oldest of the monarchs in the north. The rest are at least twenty years younger.” He stilled. “I’m not sure he’s in good health.”
I swore inside. With Bolt’s gift for understatement, that probably meant Boclar was at death’s door. “Alright,” I said, “he’s old, but what is he like?”
“Secretive . . . reclusive,” Bolt said. “I’m not sure which. I’ve only met him once in all the years I’ve been with the Vigil. Of all the kings and queens of the north, his talent lies most heavily with all.”
Surprised, I pondered how to make use of this information. In my studies with the Merum I’d learned that the talent of all, the ability to see connections between seemingly unrelated facts or events and create understanding, was the rarest of the nine and perhaps the most subtle. “Is he a philosopher, then?”
“Not in the usual sense,” Bolt said. “I think the gift of kings forces him to be a bit more practical than that.”
“Will we be able to convince him to come with us?”
One corner of Bolt’s mouth drew to the side. “I’m still not sure how you convinced me.”
Chapter 48
Pellin had studied Elieve as they made the ride across the outer border of the Maveth and then recuperated at Dukasti’s brother’s inn. With her vault gone, her maturation had accelerated. In most moments the girl—he would have put her age somewhere between fifteen and twenty—was hardly distinguishable from any other her age. Quieter, perhaps, and more given to observation or thought, but an ordinary girl nonetheless.
Grief and joy mingled within Pellin’s heart as he considered their journey and all it had brought. “But that is the way of things,” he whispered. “Every joyful circumstance carries a shadow of mourning, however distant it may be, while our griefs hold the hope of something more joyful in the future.”
Mark set his glass of date wine back on the table. Since Elieve’s healing, the boy had taken a liking to the thick drink. “What did you say, Eldest?”
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