The Last Conclave (The Lost Prophecy Book 6)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “Brohmin told me once that he had trained with Endric.”

  “Perhaps. He and Endric knew each other better than I ever knew the Hunter. Now, are we going to talk, or would you like to spar?”

  Jakob smiled to himself and unsheathed his sword.

  It had been many months since he had unsheathed simply to spar. Even then, he had blunted the edge of the blade, not wanting to harm his opponent. Brohmin had sparred with him from time to time, but the last time he had practiced with much intensity had been with Endric, and when camped with the Denraen.

  There was something different about sparring, when the focus was simply on practice and improving his skill. So often lately, he had been focused on staying alive. First, it had been when facing the Deshmahne, and then when facing the groeliin. There was a sense of peace that came when using the sword, when moving through the forms and patterns that he didn’t have anywhere else. It had been the first time that his mind had opened, and perhaps the first time that he had never really understood the connection to the ahmaean.

  Jakob stepped back into his ready posture and waited.

  “You may begin,” the older man said.

  Jakob eyed him for a moment before shrugging. “I’ll take it easy on you.”

  “I won’t do the same with you.”

  Jakob chuckled to himself. There were many similarities between this man and Endric, and he suspected that they had trained together, and perhaps knew each other well.

  Jakob stepped forward, darting in a complicated catah, but it was one that Endric had taught him. He thought that it would be a good way to gauge how much this man knew, and how well he had practiced with Endric.

  The old man was quick, his movements still fluid. He blocked each of Jakob’s thrusts, moving through the defense of the catah easily.

  Jakob transitioned from one form to the next, continuing his attack. He maintained a smooth attack, but not with the same intensity that he would have fought when facing the groeliin. For that matter, it wasn’t nearly the same intensity as he used when facing the Deshmahne.

  The older man grunted and parried Jakob’s attack, blocking one of his blows before turning on the offensive. He used a modified combination of several catahs that forced Jakob to step backward, focusing on his defense.

  The man was quick.

  Despite his age, he managed to press Jakob back with surprising skill.

  Jakob resisted the urge to pull on his ahmaean and slow the fight. When he had practiced with Endric, he had not done that, though he had not been in control of his abilities so he might have done so unintentionally.

  Instead, he allowed his mind to empty, focusing only on his movements, and on the other man’s blade.

  Their movements became a dance. Back and forth, catah flowing into catah, each of them recognizing the movement of the other. As he fought, it became quite clear that this man had much of Endric’s knowledge and shared the same efficient movements and skill, though perhaps diminished only slightly by age. The older man had some creativity with his attacks, and forced Jakob back at times, demanding that he attempt a different approach.

  They circled the entirety of the clearing, and Jakob left his mind empty. As he fought, he used the knowledge that he had gained from Endric, as well as from Brohmin, but awareness of other techniques drifted into his mind, and Jakob realized that they came from Niall. When he’d stepped back along the fibers as Niall, he had known these techniques. Somehow, Jakob had absorbed them during that time and had claimed them as his own.

  They were patterns that Jakob knew—and they were modifications of patterns that Endric or Brohmin had taught him—but modifications, nonetheless.

  The older man grunted under the effort of their fight. A hint of a smile played across his lips, and his breathing became labored. But eventually, the man began to slow.

  Finally, he stepped back, lowering his sword. “I concede.”

  There was something about the way he said it that told Jakob the man was not accustomed to losing.

  “I imagine you would have given Endric quite a challenge,” Jakob said.

  “You have it wrong.”

  Jakob frowned, and movement behind him drew his attention. He saw Novan approaching with three others. Two were women, physical opposites of one another. One was an incredibly wide woman, wearing a dress that looked like it had been cut from a tent, while the other was petite, so tiny as to likely only come up to his waist. The third newcomer was another older man, this one with a deeply furrowed brow and bushy eyebrows, but a bald head.

  “How do I have it wrong?” Jakob asked.

  “I never gave Endric a challenge,” the man said.

  “With the way you fight, you would have to have given Endric a challenge.”

  A hint of a smile spread across his face.

  “Were you Denraen?” Jakob asked. He suspected the man was more than just Denraen but didn’t want to make any assumptions.

  “I once claimed that title,” the man said.

  Novan approached, and Jakob saw him take note of his sword, as well as the old man’s. “We’ve been here but a few hours, and already you challenged him?” he asked the old man.

  The man shrugged. “Anyone who has trained with Endric—and claims to be damahne—would be an interesting challenge, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know what you would say,” Novan said.

  The old man shot Novan a hard look. “I’ve seen you with your staff, historian. Don’t pretend that you aren’t as skilled as any.”

  “I pretend nothing. I’ve actually had to use my staff to defend myself in the last few years. And what have you done?”

  “Only what I have promised.”

  “You never promised to abandon your skills,” Novan said.

  The man grunted. “Why would I abandon them? It took years of training to acquire them.”

  “And all he has now is time,” the tiny woman said. She had a high-pitched voice that was slightly scratchy, and she looked at the older swordsman with an amused expression. There seemed to be a comfort between them, and Jakob suspected a connection existed.

  “Time? You never seem to mind watching him as he spends hours moving through his patterns,” the older woman said.

  “Why would I mind? He still has most of the strength he once did. My mind fills in the rest.” She giggled, and the sound was piercing.

  Jakob looked over to Novan, searching for confirmation that these were members of the Conclave. These are the people the historian had feared bringing him to? The woman who seemed more interested in ogling an old swordsman, as well as the rest of them?

  “I’ve lost some of my strength, but I can maintain my skill,” the old man said.

  The heavier-set woman chuckled. “Maintain? It seems to me that from watching you over the years, you have increased your skill.”

  “Were that the case, I would be obligated to return.”

  “Return to where?” Jakob asked with a frown.

  Novan brought his staff around in a sharp movement, swinging it toward the old swordsman. The man brought his blade up more quickly than Jakob would have believed, and blocked the blow. The sound of metal against metal rang out, a sharp crack that echoed off the nearby buildings.

  “Do not think that I need to spar with you, historian,” the old man said.

  Novan smiled as he turned to Jakob. “Have you figured it out yet?”

  “Figured out what?”

  “Have you figured out who this man is?” Novan started to sweep his staff around again, but a withering glare from the old man seemed to stop him more than anything else. Novan grinned and cut his movement short. “I figured that by facing him, you would have recognized him by now.”

  “Should I have?”

  “Well, maybe not him directly, but I figured you would have recognized the patterns he used, and perhaps would have understood where Endric learned them.”

  Jakob looked at the older man—really looked at him f
or the first time. He had much of the same build as Endric, even down to the way that he stood, coiled as if ready to strike even while at ease. This was a man used to holding a sword and used to command.

  It was the same way that Endric had always appeared, the same type posture, the same obvious competence, and the same dangerous sort of grace.

  The man would be decades older than Endric.

  Could it be?

  He never spoke much to Endric about his family, much as Jakob rarely spoke about his family.

  He glanced from the old man back to Novan.

  Novan nodded and tapped his staff on the ground, leading to another loud crack, and a swirl of ahmaean along the length of the staff radiated out from the historian. The older man’s ahmaean seemed to answer in return. It was faint, and subtle, and as Jakob watched, he realized that it was obscured somewhat, almost as if intentionally so.

  “Jakob, this is Dendril. Endric’s father.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The room was not well decorated. Jakob wasn’t sure what he had expected, but certainly not the sparseness that he found on the inside of the sanctum for the Conclave. He thought there might have been tapestries or sculptures or many of the same ornate decorations that were found throughout the palace of the Magi, but there were none. Instead, blank stone walls surrounded him.

  This wasn’t the entirety of their sanctum.

  It couldn’t be. He had been led in here by Dendril, following the old man, watching him and noting more and more signs that he was much like Endric. They had a similar walk, though Endric had a hint of a limp, as if some ancient scar had left him more injured than he seemed on the outside.

  Novan stood to his side, leaning on his staff. He stared at the walls, almost as if waiting for something to change. Perhaps he was. Perhaps Novan knew the secret of the sanctum and knew how they would be able to open it up to something much grander.

  “This is still unconventional,” the small woman said. Jakob had learned her name was Tamera, and that she came from one of the south lands, though he couldn’t remember which one. He’d looked at her for signs of Deshmahne markings, and when she had seen him staring, she’d glared at him.

  “Unconventional or not, he has studied with Endric, and the historian vouches for him.” Dendril looked at the two women before his gaze drifted to the third of their group.

  The bald man smoothed his thick eyebrows, and the wrinkles along his brow furrowed quite deeply. Jakob noted ahmaean around him, though it was strange. There was something about it that seemed off. It was more than just the fact that it was less translucent than what he was accustomed to seeing. There was a milkiness to it that reminded him less of the Magi and more of the damahne in his visions.

  Jakob studied the man, curious about him. He had not been offered the man’s name, and the others seemed to defer to him, if only by giving him more space. He’d learned that the large woman’s name was Bollah.

  At first, Jakob assumed that Novan’s reluctance to come here had stemmed from a concern about the reaction of these two women, or possibly Dendril, but the longer that he was here, the more certain he was that Novan either feared—or respected—this man.

  “He walks the fibers,” the bald man said.

  The two women looked over at him. “Are you certain?” Bollah asked.

  “While we were in here discussing whether or not he should be allowed entrance, he remained in the courtyard, and he walked the fibers.”

  Jakob stared at him and looked at the ahmaean, wondering if perhaps Alyta had not been the last of the damahne. Was it possible for this man to also be damahne? Or was he more like Brohmin, and simply gifted with abilities that he would not have otherwise?

  “How do you know?” Tamera said.

  “There is a certain signature when it occurs.”

  Even Brohmin, gifted by the damahne as he was, couldn’t detect when Jakob walked back along the fibers. Brohmin had not been able to reach the fibers himself.

  “Are you damahne?” Jakob asked.

  The bald man smoothed his eyebrows once more. “An interesting question, but unfortunately, I am not.”

  There was none of the musical quality to his voice that Jakob typically associated with the damahne, but the man did have a hint of the sweetness to him that he smelled from other damahne when he traveled. They had a distinctive scent, one that smelled like fresh rain; perhaps that was the scent of the ahmaean. Jakob had never considered that possibility before.

  “How are you aware that I walked back along the fibers?”

  “As I said, there is a certain signature when it occurs.”

  “What signature is that?”

  “In this place, the signature stems from the way the stones resonate.” The man smiled and twisted the end of one of his eyebrows. “I imagine you were hoping for something more exotic.”

  Jakob shrugged. He wasn’t sure what he had hoped for but was surprised that there was anyone here able to detect when he walked backward. He had not known there was anyone who could detect that.

  “And what did you see?” the man asked.

  “I was curious about the extent of the damahne construction here. I thought that perhaps I could see what this place was like before it was built.”

  The two women’s eyes widened. “You have such a grasp of the fibers that you can do that?” Tamera asked.

  The bald man shook his head. “That control is not possible. He would need to have ancestors here for him to walk back and visit.”

  Novan pressed his lips together, but he remained silent.

  Jakob wondered again who this man was, and why he seemed to know so much about the fibers, but more than that, he wanted to know if the man could teach him anything. He wasn’t above learning from someone who was not damahne. He would learn from anyone who could teach, much as he had when he had attempted to first learn the sword.

  “I did not have any ancestors here. Instead, I walked back and spoke to Shoren.”

  Tamera gasped. “Shoren? As in Shoren?”

  “He is descended from Shoren and Aimielen,” Novan said.

  The bald man studied Jakob for a moment. He had stopped twirling his eyebrows and instead tapped his lips thoughtfully. “Having a capacity to walk back and learn from Shoren would be valuable. I imagine that you can observe much by looking through his eyes.”

  “I speak to him, as well,” Jakob said.

  “Speak to him? That would be dangerous,” the small woman said.

  “Perhaps it is dangerous, but Shoren welcomes me, so I think that if it was too dangerous, he would not.”

  “What is it like?” the larger woman, Bollah, asked.

  “Talking to Shoren?”

  “Yes.”

  The man led Jakob toward the back wall where he pushed out with his connection to the ahmaean. As he did, a section of the wall opened, revealing stairs leading down. Lanterns hung on the wall, glowing with a bright while light that reminded him of the lanterns found within the Tower.

  “He is…” Jakob struggled to think about how to describe Shoren in a way that would do him service. The damahne had been helpful and had seemed to understand that Jakob needed to learn as much as he could, and had been willing to teach. “Interesting. He knows that I do not belong, but he still doesn’t banish me. He is willing to have me sit in the back of his mind even though it grants me much of his knowledge. And he has taken the time to communicate with me, listening to my questions and answering what he can.”

  The bald man paused at the bottom of the stairs where another door greeted them. Jakob noted that Novan and the others had followed them down the stairs, but they maintained a respectable distance.

  With another press of his ahmaean, the milky energy moving with as much control as any that Jakob had ever seen, another door opened, this time, revealing a massive library built deep beneath the ground.

  Jakob blinked.

  This was what he had expected to find when he first came to the C
onclave. He had expected that they would store knowledge and have an unrivaled library, and he had been disappointed when he hadn’t seen it.

  “What do you mean that remaining there grants you much of his knowledge?” the smaller woman asked.

  Jakob tore his attention away from the library. “Only that my presence in the past, at least in the way that I walk back along the fibers, places me very deep in his mind. When I am that deeply connected to him, it’s possible that I can reach for his thoughts and his memories, but he can reach for mine, as well.”

  The larger woman gasped. “You would run the risk of influencing his choices.”

  “Shoren doesn’t think that likely.” At least, he hadn’t before. Now, Jakob was less certain what Shoren thought was likely.

  “The fibers have long been thought to be fixed,” the bald man began, taking on the same sort of tone with Jakob that the damahne he’d used as hosts had taken. Even the daneamiin Aruhn had used a similar tone, practically chastising Jakob for believing that there might be some way to influence the past, to possibly find a way to change it. “They are woven together in our past,” he went on, twining his fingers together, “and spread out into possibilities of our future,” he finished, spreading his fingers apart.

  “But if I can go back and bring with me what I know, it’s possible that it isn’t nearly as fixed as believed,” Jakob said.

  The bald man pressed his lips together into a tight line and shook his head.

  “It shouldn’t be possible. There is no way that those in our time can influence those in a previous one,” the man said.

  Jakob looked back at the library, letting his attention be drawn to the rows of books, and the shelves lining the walls. How much knowledge was hidden here? How much was kept from the outside world by the Conclave, hidden—and separate—so that others had no access to it?

  Jakob took a step past the man, ignoring his mild protestations. Once inside, it was apparent that the interior of the room was enormous. Given the size, he suspected that it stretched beneath the entirety of all the buildings above, likely occupying the space beneath the courtyard as well.