“Tonight?” the woman whispered.
Lips pressed together, Kostan nodded. “I’m sorry. I realize there’s been little time to recuperate.” In his eyes, I glimpsed the sorrow over those who had already fallen ill or worse on the march.
The man leaned close to his wife. “I know you’re tired, Pimmi.”
Pimmi swallowed, then licked her fingers and grabbed one of the trout by its tail fin to flip it. The scent of cooked fish swirled up on the breeze. “Can we eat first? It’s…” She laid a hand on her lower belly. I peered and noticed a second, smaller aura sleeping peacefully within her larger spirit.
“She’s with child,” the husband said.
Anguish colored Kostan’s aura as he realized he might have misjudged. A pregnant woman might be slow. He so desperately wanted to protect these people. All of them. He drew a breath.
“Of course,” he said. “Please eat. Meageld here is in charge of your group. He can work out the arrangements with you.”
At Kostan’s nod, the Sharder man stepped forward. He already wore a small rucksack. Each guide had filled a backpack with three day’s rations and maps of the two likeliest locations of the other Heartstones. Runners had been sent ahead to redirect the refugees who had already advanced beyond the landslides. Like the group camped outside the garrison, the healthiest would be given guides while the others would be asked to wait for the main body of citizens. The bands of quick-moving refugees would split into two sections, each heading for a suspected Heartstone. If any were to find the sanctuary, a scout would hurry back with the news.
As Kostan stood, Meageld squatted over his heels beside the fire. He flipped the other trout for the pair and began speaking to them in low tones, pointing to a section of the roadway where his assigned refugees were already gathering. Kostan nodded to the man then moved off.
Further up the hill, Fishel was leading another group of Stormshard guides through the camp. Pain darkened his aura every time he inspected a campfire and had to pass over a group of Provs who would be too slow to leave tonight. Even if the landslides weren’t an obstacle, the road wasn’t wide enough for everyone to march at once. It was a simple, logical, and tremendously painful calculation.
As Kostan and Avill moved off for the next grouping of tents, she hurried her steps and drew even with him. “Many of the Lethin hid from the void deep down,” she said. “A few stories speak of a city beneath the mountains, though they say little more about it.”
The catacombs, I said aloud, remembering the tunnels beneath the ancient keep where Stormshard had imprisoned me. Those tunnels had dead-ended at collapsed sections, but maybe they’d once been far more extensive.
Kostan glanced over his shoulder at the remaining guides. “Did you hear that? Be on the lookout for passages.”
One of the Sharders shrugged. “Unlikely, given the quakes.”
“Nonetheless, we need every advantage.”
The Sharders nodded understanding, and Kostan led them on. After about an hour, every Stormshard ranger had an assigned group of Prov refugees. Kostan’s spirit was heavy inside his body as he trudged toward the road. When he glanced at Avill, though, he drew himself up, stopped, and faced her. He laid hands on her shoulders and bent his knees until they stood eye to eye.
“I haven’t had a chance to thank you. You’ve given me hope. We will survive, Avill. We will defend the seal.”
“What of the Maelstrom?” she asked. “Everyone in Cosmal knows that all who sail into it vanish. I don’t know how we’ll heal the rift where the Lethin failed. They knew so much…” Her eyes grew distant as memories washed through her.
“I don’t either, Avill. But we must believe or we’re doomed for certain.”
“There’s something else,” she said. “I didn’t mention it before because this task belongs to you alone.”
“What is it?” I could see in his eyes how her distant tone unsettled him. My sister had become more than a single child. She held the memories of a civilization. A pang of sorrow for her lost innocence pinched me.
“When the Lethin crafted the seal, they collected power from across their nation. Every human contributed to helping the mages push back the void and seal it away. There was a talisman worn by their leader that provided a focus for the Lethin. By inspiring the population, the leader—she was both a mage and a queen—was able to channel that power. If you find the talisman, it will help hold back the flood.”
Kostan’s hand crept toward his breastbone as he cocked his head. “What happened to it?”
“None among the First Tribe knew. Their queen died in the final battle, and none knew what became of her body. It’s a thin hope… I wish I could offer more to guide you.”
“Do you remember what it looks like?” Kostan asked as he tugged on the Heartshard’s chain.
My sister nodded, eyes wide and solemn. When the banded agate slipped from beneath the tunic, she gasped. She touched it with the tip of her finger.
“You must lead them,” she whispered. “Kostan, if you can inspire your people, make them believe in you and Atal… I think we have a chance at the defense, at least. Where did you find it?” Emotions mingled on her face as her memories of the Lethin swirled in her aura.
“It’s been passed from Emperor to Emperor since the first kings and queens sat on Steelhold’s throne.”
“Then some of our—I mean, some of the Lethin who remained in the mountains must have survived. I wish the First Tribe had known that. It would have given them peace.”
Kostan smiled, a faint curve of his lip. “My chance to help the First Tribe is long gone, but with what you’ve taught me tonight, I think there’s a chance I can find peace for my own people. Thank you.”
Avill smiled back, the child she’d been shining through for a moment.
“There’s a poem,” she said, the torchlight flickering over a faint blush that colored her cheeks. “Would you like to hear it?”
Kostan straightened. “I’d love to.”
“Take the Heartshard, bind them tight,
With its strength banish the night,
Hearts and minds gather in light,
A chance to finally end the fight.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Avill.” With that, he draped an arm over my sister’s shoulders and guided her toward the garrison and rest.
***
Lilik laid out a bedroll for Avill in the corner of the barracks where she’d slept the last few nights. As the groups of refugees began to file out into the darkness, the crunch of footfalls echoing off the heavy stone of the garrison’s outer wall, Lilik gathered my sister close. She hummed a tune as Avill pillowed her head on her shoulder.
“I had a brother,” Lilik whispered as she rocked back and forth. “His name was Jaret. We were about the same age difference as you and Savra.” She stared at the far wall, her face melancholy. I wondered why I’d never asked Lilik about her life. Maybe it had been too easy to forget she’d once been more than a voice trapped in a bracelet.
I drifted away from the pair, over the walls and above the quieting camp. Kostan paced the road behind the receding groups of Provs. He seemed lost in thought, no doubt worrying over the Empire’s grave problems. If the situation weren’t already terrible, the fire had destroyed many of the already-meager supplies. The remaining food might last a score of days. After that, people would begin to starve.
I screamed into the emptiness where only I could hear. What was I still doing here? My friends and family were fighting for their lives while I drifted and watched.
It was time to move on. Lilik believed Essence magic was my only connection to the world. If anyone could see or hear me—or maybe even help me regain my body—it was the Essence spiritists. And if they couldn’t, at least I would have tried, which was more than I could claim now. I was a phantom, haunting those I loved. And, like the ghost stories told to Cosmali children, I lingered because I couldn’t let go.
I dove through the wall and swirled around Lilik and Avill one last time. Next, I glided toward Kostan. His inner self still lay deep inside his impenetrable shell, locked away so he could be the leader his people needed. I stared deep into his hidden heart, straining as if I peered into the darkest well, and bade his soul farewell. I lingered for a long moment, memorizing the contours of his face.
Finally, I jerked away. I flung myself downhill, seeking a living body to help guide me toward the grasslands.
Beyond the edges of the fire and torchlight, dark forest cloaked the hillsides. A sentry crouched atop a small rock outcrop, his aura alert but streaked with fear. By now, every soldier knew the Riftspawn were coming. The man’s loyalties were firm, though. He wouldn’t abandon his post. I brushed past him before throwing my awareness farther. Gliding from aura to aura, briefly sensing the spirits of a dozen guards as I descended, I slid down from the mountains. The moon had slipped a finger’s width across the sky when I anchored myself to the final sentry before Westpass Cut emptied onto the grasslands. The Sharder sat tucked beneath the boughs of a large evergreen. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and the silence had made her drowsy.
Even when sleepy, a Stormshard rebel would beat most ordinary soldiers in a contest of reflexes. A novice combatant wouldn’t draw a full breath before the Sharder had her blade against their throat. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t fare as well if the Riftspawn surprised her. I hoped they wouldn’t arrive on her shift.
From here, I needed anchors among the scattered population on the grasslands. I unfurled my perception, searching for the warmth of human life. While I ran my focus over the wide area, sounds from the entrance to Westpass brought the Sharder to her feet. My awareness recoiled, condensing on the woman. Somehow, her blanket lay in the pine needles behind her, discarded without a sound. Her body tensed like a hunting cat about to pounce.
The sounds drew nearer, resolving into the rapid thudding of hoofbeats on the road. Straining, I spied twenty or so figures bent over their horses’ necks. Moonlight glinted on the rings and buckles of the horses’ tack. The riders wore cloaks that streamed behind their mounts.
I swooped close to the lead rider and drew back in shock when he shook his head, waving his hand in front of his eyes as if shooing a fly. Had he sensed me?
As the group approached the sentry, the lead rider drew rein, slowing his horse to a trot.
“Citizen of the Empire,” he called out. He threw back his hood, exposing an aged face. I wracked my memory—I’d seen the man somewhere. “We don’t wish to alarm you. We come in aid of his eminence, Emperor Kostan.”
The Stormshard sentry stepped from beneath the tree, dagger tight in her grip. Though the riders outnumbered her twenty to one, her aura was resolute. “Why should I believe you?”
“My name is Hoareld. Tenth-ranked mage of the ferro order.”
Of course. During my time as a palace scribe, I’d seen the man scurrying across Steelhold’s grounds. In Ferromaster Ilishian’s absence, he’d become the leader of the order.
The man spoke more, but other noises grabbed my attention. They reminded me of the rasping sounds I’d once called the night whispers. The voices of the dead. I sensed there were thousands of spirits flocking around the riders like crows. I swirled around the group, peering. Silk robes peeked out from beneath their riding cloaks. Hoareld wasn’t the only mage in the group. This must be the entire missing ferro order.
Another realization trampled over the first, knocking me flat. Metalogy and spiritism shared many traits. Parveld had believed that one was simply the tainted reflection of the other. Spiritists worked in three domains: Mind, Body, and Essence. Argent magic affected the Mind. Aurum mages both enhanced and cursed Bodies. Which meant ferro mages could affect Essences.
I didn’t need to go to the western steppes or the Sandsea to seek help.
My potential salvation had just arrived on horseback.
Azar! I yelled with every bit of force I could muster. Nearly every mage on the road stiffened.
At the rear of the procession, a pretty young woman sat straight in the saddle, scanning the surrounding hills until her eyes seemed to pick me out where I hovered.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Parveld
A primitive hut
PARVELD STOOD FACING the gash between worlds. Bottomless and infinite, it called to him. The Hunger saw him. It craved his whole being. He’d never felt so wanted. As he took his first, halting steps toward the breach, he looked down and saw his feet were bare. Cuts bled on the flakes of shale that had sliced his feet like a thousand knives. Behind him, the trail of blood stretched to a distant, gray horizon.
A featureless landscape stretched in all directions, a flat shale plane broken only by the Hunger’s gateway and Parveld’s powerless human form.
A dream. Yet again. No matter how desperately he wished to join with the Hunger, he wouldn’t be welcomed until his work was complete. The true breach between worlds lay deep into the Maelstrom. Once the seal was broken, the rift would swell and swallow everyone and everything. But for now, that pathway was closed.
Turning his awareness inward, Parveld clawed for a link to his sleeping body. There, the shape of a man lost in slumber. He probed the outlines of his unaware self until he found a crack. Like a heavy maul swung by a logger, he threw himself at the break.
Sleep shattered, fragmenting into the dim interior of the herder’s hut. Parveld dropped into his body like a bucket of water into a basin. Immediately, he felt the hollow weakness, the deep aches in his bones. His heart beat reluctantly, and his blood washed painfully through his veins. He swung his legs over the edge of his cot and sat clutching his head. His legs were so thin beneath his trousers now, the muscles gone slack with malnutrition, the skin loose and pallid. His ribs jutted over his hollow belly, and his eyes burned as his dry eyelids rasped over them.
But worst of all was the emptiness in his soul. Each time he dreamed of the Hunger, it grew worse. Soon it would be unbearable. He needed to strike soon and strike hard. Finish this. Starting by claiming what was his in Jaliss.
He shoved his awareness out to his brethren. The physical sensations faded, bringing blessed relief. In the recesses of his mind, he knew this only weakened him further. While merged with the great tapestry of his brother-selves, he forgot his bodily needs. That needed to change if he wished to stay strong until the end. For now, though, he swept his focus over the vast army marching to the north. A vast swarm already held the capital. Legions more had yet to arrive.
His bond with the Spawn grew stronger with each passing day. Now, they marched in time to the slow beating of Parveld’s heart. Thump. Thump. Some hummed in tune with the pulsing of Parveld’s blood.
With Jaliss fallen and its remaining citizens freed from their mortal prisons, his power had grown. But the remaining seal components blazed even brighter. Parveld could almost see them, blood-red in the mountains north of the capital. It was time to march, to seize what he had won, and to push the onslaught to the enemy.
He withdrew his awareness and sucked down a cup of stale water. The hut was bare, its meager provisions exhausted. Parveld couldn’t stay, but he recognized now that his desire to remain here had been a human weakness. After Jaliss, the final conflict loomed. Somewhere deep in his heart, he’d feared to let his former friends see him like this. They would pity him because they didn’t understand the glory of the final communion of souls. But he was the Hunger’s champion. He would not fail his destiny.
He slid his last piece of hard bread into his mouth. Over the last few days, his teeth had loosened. Chewing was p
ainful, and he feared his molars might lose their grip. As he sucked on the bread, he opened his satchel and pulled out the Bracer of Sight.
The metal was uncomfortably loose on his arm now. But the moment he fastened the buckles, the vision swept him away.
Wind swirled around Parveld, carrying crystals of frost that sparkled in the cold white sun. He stood on a ridge of sharp granite and looked across a narrow valley filled with boulders and a cascading stream. On the opposite slope, and entrance to an ancient corridor opened into a hill. Torches burned to either side of the dark passage.
When he blinked, his view sped toward the corridor. Shadowy figures sprang to life. Around him, his brethren snarled and wailed, claws raking the bare stone of the passage. Down stairs, through endless halls. The deeper they forged, the more certain Parveld was that the final part of the seal lay ahead. With a roar, humans attacked. They screamed as they died.
And then Parveld stood before Kostan. The Emperor glowed, so bright that Parveld couldn’t bear the sight. Just a glimpse burned the backs of his eyes, leaving everything else gray and Kostan the blazing exception. As Parveld staggered backward, he saw them. Threads of light that reminded Parveld of the sparks in a dawnweaving. Did Kostan have the ability?
No. It couldn’t be.
As the Emperor raised his shining sword, the vision dissolved.
The Guralan forest opened around him. Parveld staggered, disoriented, as his ears filled with the soughing of wind through the high boughs of the evergreens. Ahead, a trail parted the deep curtains of shadow, and a small party ventured south. Two young women and a girl.
Parveld’s heart seized. How was Savra here? He’d cast her adrift, as lost as Devonii. With a yell, Parveld fought his way out of the visions. Snatching the Bracer, he tore it from his forearm and dropped it on the floor.
It had to be a lie. Parveld’s victory was threatened only by Kostan and Savra working together. He’d taken care of that. Devonii had never returned. Savra could not find her way back. It was impossible.
Fate of the Drowned (The Broken Lands Book 3) Page 16