Chapter 69
Fess blinked, surrounded by the monarchs of the north. Runners flooded into and out of the square. In the eastern sky the first hint of the coming dawn marked the horizon. “Cesla is close,” he yelled at Rymark. “We need to attack.”
The king of Owmead shook his head. “The best we can do is hold until sunrise. I don’t have the men for a counterattack.”
Fess grabbed the king’s arm, desperate to make him understand. “He’s too strong. If we can’t get to Cesla and distract him, it won’t matter.”
Rymark spun, knocking his hand away. “The walls are falling! I don’t have the men!”
Fess searched the square. Willet stood, surrounded by Pellin and the rest of the Vigil, their hands still on his head. Ringed around them were the monarchs, waiting for their opportunity to call the Fayit, an opportunity growing less likely by the second. Outside the ring stood their guards, the most physically gifted of each kingdom, waiting, the last line of defense. Standing to one side in the shadows, Lelwin waited with the remnants of the force she’d taken outside the walls.
“I don’t need your men,” Fess said to Rymark. “Wag!”
The sentinel came running out of the shadows covering Lelwin. Fess put his hand on his head. The man who stole your litter mate is here in the city, Fess said. Can you find him?
His smell is everywhere, Master. The scents of him and the forest are all over the city.
Is there a direction where it’s stronger than any other?
The sentinel broke contact to trot around the boundaries of the square, stopping at each alley or street that led away to raise his muzzle and test the air. He came back and put his head beneath Fess’s hand, staring. The wind is swirling, but it’s strongest from there, Master.
Guide us as quickly as you can, Wag. We must find Cesla before sunrise. He raised his hand, pointing at Lelwin. “If you want vengeance that matters, then you and your men will come with me.”
They ran through the darkened streets toward the west wall. As they turned the last corner, the sounds of battle swept over them. Soldiers screamed in pain and fury, fighting to contain men from the Darkwater who moved among them, darting shadows who left death in their wake. Light blazed and died in pockets as the defenders fought for advantage.
“Where is he, Wag?” Fess yelled above the clamor of steel and butchery.
Wag scented the air for a moment before going on point toward a shadow of a building where the torchlight failed to penetrate. Fess grabbed Lelwin’s arm and pointed. “There!”
She barked an order and a hundred of her veiled soldiers nocked and fired into the shadows.
Screams of pain and rage shattered the air.
Threads erupted from darkness, coming from the walls, coming from everywhere. Pellin slashed, but already the black snakes had wrapped around Mirren and more were coming. Dura pulled himself to his feet like a man being forced to his own execution, but the edge of his gift cut through the threads and tentacles that threatened them. The severed ends dispersed into greasy smoke that thickened around them until they were lost to sight.
When the smoke cleared, Dura lay on his face like a dead man, but the rest of them stood. A solitary thread, no bigger around then his wrist, came for Pellin out of the darkness, but he destroyed it with a thought. Stillness settled on Dura’s vault.
“Is it over, Eldest?” Mirren asked.
Pellin shook his head. “No. We must clear the walls.”
“Why?” Toria asked. “The writing is beyond us.”
He held his answer, fearing the evil that lurked in the darkness of Dura’s vault would hear. Instead he turned from the center to face the nearest wall. “Guard me. If you need help, summon Lord Dura.”
“If he can be summoned,” Mirren said.
“He’s alive,” Pellin said. “Everything here ends if he dies.” Raising hands that trembled with exhaustion, he cut at the mass of black that covered the wall. Perhaps it was because Dura’s vault was older than Elieve’s. Possibly, the disease in Dura’s mind ran far deeper than any of them could guess, but the vines shrugged off his attacks, and he feared exhaustion would take him before he was halfway done. One by one the other members of the Vigil turned to help him, but the threads refused to give ground.
“If we cannot uncover the walls before dawn,” Pellin said, “the light will destroy his vault and the information within it. We must not fail in this.”
But their progress was too slow. Even as their gift reckoned time, they would never clear the walls of Atol Bealu’s malice before sunrise. “Willet,” Pellin cried. “Stand and fight!”
Dura groaned, gasping in pain as he struggled to rise. “Cesla,” he panted. “The key.”
“What do you mean?” Pellin asked. “How is Cesla the key?”
Dura doubled over in pain as he reduced another attack to wisps of smoke. “He didn’t want us to know who he was.” He ducked his head. “Why? Why would it matter?”
Pellin’s mind raced. “Atol is torturing him.”
Dura, curled almost in two, shook his head as he gasped in pain. “They wouldn’t care.”
A memory of Elieve came to Pellin, on the ground and shaking as she tried to reconcile memories that didn’t match her body or spirit. Intuition burst in his mind like a flash of phos-fire. “They needed his mind to make his body work.”
Dura nodded. “He’s still there, trapped.”
Pellin whirled, but there was no sign of Cesla now, only the attacks that came from Dura’s vault. “Cesla!” he screamed. “Fight with us. We need you.” He turned, searching. “I always loved you. I know you’re tired. Help us!”
Toria stumbled, falling to one knee. “Was it so difficult with Elieve?” she gasped.
Pellin shook his head. “No, but Igesia was powerful beyond reckoning. He used himself without regard.” He thought about that for a moment. “No,” he amended. “Even before his final apotheosis, Igesia’s attacks were far stronger than mine.”
“Why?” Toria pressed.
Pellin would have demurred, feigning ignorance, but his instinct told him differently. He knew. “Igesia had a capacity for love that surpassed me. In the few hours he knew Elieve, he loved her like a favored daughter.”
Already, Pellin’s mind accused him, throwing comparisons to Igesia at him, and he desired nothing more than to return to his fight rather than admit he was so much less than the Honored One who died for a girl he hardly knew. “His love gave him strength in the gift that astonished me.”
Toria lifted her head, calling with the longing of a child. “Cesla, I loved you. You never wanted this. Please!”
Turning to the wall, she raised her hands and attacked. Wherever her gaze landed, threads and tentacles withered and fell away. Writing appeared, strange glyphs comprising a language of vast complexity. Instinctively, Pellin realized the authors of the language would have to be immortal. The writing made his language appear crude and rushed by comparison.
Tears streamed down Toria’s face. He added his strength to hers. With slashes of their gift the vines parted from the walls, and each time they were slower to return. The attacks ceased and Mirren added her strength to theirs. Together they wielded domere with the grim efficiency of executioners.
Then it ended.
Dura lay on the floor of his vault, unmoving. Pellin turned to the others. Each of them would bear scars within their souls of the battle, and it would be turnings of the moon before any were strong again. Toria and Mirren sat, watchful of the darkness, untrusting of their victory. He couldn’t blame them. He turned a slow circle, his gaze taking in the glyphs of the Fayit language, memorizing it.
“Go,” Pellin said to Mirren. “See how the kings and queens fare. Time passes strangely in the delve and even more so in battle. Determine the hour and return.”
Pellin settled himself to wait. Even a few moments might feel like hours within Dura’s mind, but Mirren returned almost immediately. “Dawn is here. The sun is about t
o clear the horizon.”
He had only to wait for a second. Light flared in Dura’s mind.
Chapter 70
I opened my eyes to wan sunlight outside the counting house in Treflow. While Gael and the rest of the Vigil stared at me, I searched my mind. “It’s gone,” I held out my hands. They touched me, briefly, and I couldn’t help but notice the pain of fatigue that pinched their expressions. Even so little effort was beyond us. The thought of ever using my gift again made me want to weep.
The sun continued its rise off the horizon, its light strengthening as it changed from red to orange to yellow. I heard the sound of footsteps just before I saw Fess and Lelwin come into view from the west quarter of the city. The bodies of men and women were strewn everywhere.
Fess bowed to Pellin and the assembled kings and queens.
“Genuflections can wait for another time,” Rymark said. “What happened?”
Wonder lit Fess’s eyes, and he wore a smile. If it was less carefree than he would have worn months ago, I was still gratified to see it. “We were beat, Your Majesty,” he said. “They came pouring over the west wall, spending men and women until they took control. We fell back and fought house to house, slowing them with bow fire.” He looked at Lelwin. “Several times Cesla sought to withdraw and we pursued.”
“Just before dawn the enemy went crazy. They started attacking each other.” He gestured west at the bodies strewn everywhere. “I thought it was a trick at first, but they kept on. We put down as many as we could.”
“Is Cesla dead?”
Fess shook his head. “Just before dawn, he took the last of his men and fled back over the wall of the city.”
I turned to the rulers. “We have to hurry before he gets too far away.”
“You all need rest, Dura,” Rymark said. “And there are men and women who need whatever healing we can give them. This can wait.”
“No,” I said. “It can’t. They’re still trying to open the prison.”
“It’s daylight,” the king of Owmead said.
“Not in the Darkwater,” I said, looking at Pellin. “I remember.”
The sunlight did little to relieve his pallor, and tremors worked their way up and down his arms. Only Allta’s support kept the Eldest upright, but when he spoke his voice was clear. “Lord Dura is correct. We cannot wait.”
They formed the circle there in the light of the morning with Pellin and me inside. “I remember the names,” I said.
He nodded. “I have them as well, along with the writing on the wall.”
“The name of the Darkwater.”
“Aer willing.” His expression turned grave. “I can’t read it, Willet.”
Something too desperate to be called hope ran through me. “I think they can teach us.” I turned to face the Everwood, missing my friend, but unexpected lightness filled my heart as I lifted my voice. “Daelean Eriescu Allorianae Rihtmunuc, answer the call. According to the binding you placed upon Fayit, you are summoned.” I didn’t wait for him to cross whatever distance separated us before I continued. “Storan Midriashech Zelwaunil Rihtmunuc, come! As you have sworn and bound yourself, aid us.”
Within the circle they appeared, larger than men, overshadowing us all, but with their heads bowed in submission. “What is your command?” they intoned.
I pointed to myself, Pellin, and the rest of the Vigil as I replied. “Teach those of us in the Vigil the language of the Fayit,” I said. “Then abide until you are released.”
When they lifted their heads, the light in each gaze was fierce, jubilant. They passed among and through us, imparting the knowledge of their language, much as Custos had shown me how to read the ancient language of my own race.
When they finished, they returned to the circle where Pellin and I waited. Equipped with the knowledge of their language, I bowed my apologies. “Your pardon for pronouncing your names so poorly,” I said.
They smiled in return. “The binding Aer had us weave on the Fayit is incomprehensibly powerful, but also elegant. It recognized your intent,” Daelan said. “Yet I thank you for your graciousness. It has been a long time since I heard my name in full. I’m surprised by how much I’ve missed it.”
I nodded. “That brings me to my first question. The binding you created—is it designed to be used only by the descendants of Cuman, the first man?”
Daelan and Storan nodded as one, but I saw the ghost of a smile begin to play over their expressions. They may have suspected my intention. “And does the binding apply to any and all Fayit, no matter who or how changed they are?”
Now their smiles shone like the sun. “Eldest,” I said. “Before you make the calling, might I suggest that you share the knowledge you hold with the rest of the Vigil.”
Pellin nodded, but grief clouded his eyes. “Toria, come,” he called. “Fess and Mirren, I need the two of you to delve me as well.” He pointed south. “But I command that you, Fess and Mirren, withdraw immediately afterward. We will contact you if we are successful. If we fail, get to the southern continent as quickly as you can.” He turned, searching until his gaze landed on his apprentice, and he pointed. “Take Mark’s memories with you as well. Seek out Dukasti. Tell him the north has fallen.”
Without ceremony we touched him, receiving his memories of the writing within my vault. Impatience thundered with each beat of my heart. I had no idea how far Cesla might have gotten or how close those in his power were to breaking the prison.
But now that we came to the moment, Pellin turned to face me. “This is your victory more than any other, Willet. Why do you defer to me?”
“Because he’s your brother,” I said. “His pride destroyed him, but Atol trapped him within his own mind, taking pleasure at his pain, denying him the release of death. I thought it would comfort you to know that he received his final mercy at your hand.”
“Thank you.” Pellin raised his hands and began the call. As long as Daelan and Storan’s names were, Atol Bealu’s far exceeded them. It took me a moment before I realized his new name was a twisted compilation of every Fayit whose spirit he’d taken unto himself, but Pellin never flinched or faltered.
Later, much later, the cadence of syllables cascaded upward, signaling he’d come to the end of Atol’s name. “You are summoned,” Pellin commanded. “By the binding placed on the Fayit and by the grace of Aer, you are bound. You are commanded to come to me with all haste. You must answer the call.”
Pellin lowered his arms, and we waited. Toria and the rulers cast about, searching. “It will take some time,” I said. “They are bound to Cesla’s body. He will have to travel here physically.” I looked up at the morning sun. “I pray the binding forces him here before dark.”
An hour passed before Daelan and Storan jerked and turned to face north. Within minutes we heard a keening wail, and from the northern part of the city we witnessed a figure racing toward us, his legs churning faster than the purest gifted among humans could run. But his hands covered his eyes.
As he grew closer, it was clear rage and fury comprised his scream, not grief. He emerged from the rubble and ruin of Treflow to stand before us, wet from crossing the river and panting with fury.
“Greetings, Atol,” Pellin said. “I would offer you the chance of repentance and the rite of haeling, if you wish it.”
Daelan and Storan shook their heads. “It is not possible.”
Cesla jerked and writhed, straining against invisible bonds. “You and your kind are motes of dust. Nothing more.”
“You are defeated, Atol,” Storan said. “Again.”
“Defeated?” Cesla said. “Do you think our war is over? Do you presume to believe you’ve won?” Scorn twisted his features until I thought the bones in his face might break. “Look at you. Deprived of corporeal presence, you’ve reduced yourselves to shadows.” He flung out his arm, using the other to keep his eyes covered against the light. “True—you’ve won a great battle.” He laughed. “But how will you ever erase its memory f
rom those who fought it? They will come to me seeking gold or aurium or knowledge. At the last, you will not be able to stand against me.”
“He has spoken his coda,” Storan said to Pellin. “According to the binding set on the Fayit, he is yours to command.”
“For how long?” Pellin asked.
“A day.”
I watched him shake his head. “I have no wish to be in your company for so long,” he said to Atol. “But I do wish to speak with my brother. Step aside and make room for him to talk to me. Now.”
I watched as the malevolence faded from Cesla’s expression, and the man who had been the greatest holder of domere in the history of the Vigil emerged.
“Greetings, brother,” Pellin said. “Well met this fine morning.”
Cesla lowered the arm covering his eyes like a man expecting pain and turned his face toward the sun. “It is.” He smiled past rue and pain. “It is a very fine morning.”
I hoped I didn’t imagine the joy and relief that abided in his features as well.
“Why did you delve the forest?” Pellin asked him.
Cesla dropped his head until he gazed at his brother once more. “For every reason you might suppose, and more, but mostly because I wanted to know the truth of the forest. That was my fatal mistake. I equated knowledge with truth.” He looked around. “So much blood on my hands.”
“Was it?” Pellin asked. “A fatal mistake, I mean.”
“Thank Aer, yes,” he said. “As soon as you banish Atol and his kindred spirits back to their prison, I will die. Only their life force has sustained me this far. I should have perished at the first touch of their prison.” He glanced toward me. “I heard you in his mind. And Toria. I helped as much as I could.”
“I’ve missed you, Cesla,” Pellin said. “I’m sorry I let my jealousy and self-doubt keep me from telling you how much I loved and admired you.”
“Your admiration is misplaced,” he said. “You have acquired knowledge and achieved a victory that was beyond me.” He sighed. “I’d like to go now, brother. You’ll have quite a mess to clean up, but it’s better than the alternative.”
The Wounded Shadow Page 51