Embers of a Broken Throne

by Terry C. Simpson

  “What?” Both Irmina and Ancel said the word at the same time.

  “You and your siblings, Ancel, are part of a greater battle involving the gods. When the gods created the Eztezians, they gave them an imitation of their power. In it lay a chance to evolve. But they could not account for the envious netherlings or those who saw themselves as little more than slaves. Or the most violent of us, the ones who hated the gods for their experimentation, for transforming some of our offspring into the abominations that are shadelings. When the Nine formed, they deceived the Eztezians into thinking all the gods meant the world harm. They showed them what power they could achieve, how they could wield Prima through the Etchings.

  “Several gods decided the Eztezians were better off dead. Others protested, stating they needed that growing power to increase their own to battle the Nine, to save the world. The first faction went about destroying the Eztezian bloodlines, but they could no more prevent their birth than they could stop sela.

  “One of them learned that they could influence sela to limit the possible family lines from which the Aegae could be born. In order to counter the move, a few of the other gods, Ilumni, Bragni, Humelen, and Liganen, created the zyphyl, and allowed the Eztezians the ability to see the Planes of If.

  “In turn, the Eztezians recorded what they saw, stating it all as prophecy. At the same time, those four gods removed the knowledge of the Bloodline Affinity. It thwarted the enemy’s plans. Whoever the opposition might be, they could no longer tell who would be born with the power you hold.

  “The enemy’s counterstroke was to rely on man’s inherent curiosity, his need for prophecy, for belief, for religion.”

  The Chronicles, Irmina thought to herself.

  “Yes,” Charra said. “They used those weaknesses and strengths to start wars. The most powerful among you were then marked. As they died, the enemy followed those marks when the sela returned to the world. It was how they first got wind of the Dorns and others as strong as yourselves, ones who could become an Aegis. It would take them millennia to find the bloodline they sought, but what is time to gods?”

  Ancel grimaced. “I keep hearing about this power, about the Aegis. What is it? What am I?”

  “Not just you. The world. The beasts and men. The people you gather now. You are a piece, the piece that bears some power, a shield of sorts, hope for when the end comes. Only such as yourselves can combine all the essences within an element.”

  “The end?” Ancel whispered. “The end of the world like what the zyphyl spoke of?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But how can I, how can any of us, or all of us, stop what the gods cannot?” Ancel asked.

  “That, I do not know, but it begins with you acquiring the rest of your Etchings. Which is why I brought you to the forest. This fight involves even the animals, and you must call on them for help when you can. Ryne knew the importance of this when he created the Netherwood. They thwarted the Nine once; they can help again.”

  “What help can you offer us?” Ancel asked.

  “None directly as yet. The pact binds me as it does the others. It is why I could not come to Benez. Some of my kind are there, those of an opposing caste.”

  “But weren’t there a few of you among the Pathfinders and the refugees?” Ancel asked.

  “Yes. Of my caste and others whose cause is unclear.”

  “It would help if you pointed them out to us,” she said.

  “Even that much is forbidden unless the contract is broken. None of us among your people have attempted to harm you. In turn, there would need to be a threat to them first.”

  Eyes narrowed, Ancel said, “What of the ones who plot to harm us?”

  “Plots are not action.”

  “A fine line.” Irmina snorted.

  “Even If I could somehow break that binding and fight them, I would be risking some of your own, in turn releasing the enemy from the same bond. In your current state, and without my other brethren, we would lose.”

  Irmina remembered what it had been like to see Buneri fight. He’d easily decimated the Gray Council’s Matii.

  “So, what’s to be done now?” Ancel stood and began to pace. “How do we fight them if they’ve already infiltrated us?”

  “The first method is to tell who is a Deathspeaker.”

  Ancel stopped and arched an eyebrow.

  “That is what they call my caste.” Charra peered in her direction. “She met one of us before. Ryne’s guardian, Sakari.”

  Irmina felt her chest tighten at the mention of the netherling’s name.

  “Your fear is unwarranted,” Charra said. “Like myself, he was an agent working for the side that wants to see us all survive.”

  “Well he certainly fooled me,” she replied.

  “At the moment we can tell a netherling by their absolute lack of emotion and aura,” Ancel said, “but I’m certain some of you have adapted better.”

  “Emotion is a human weakness. We have no weaknesses,” Charra said. “As for auras, it is best to assume the Nine know of this and possess a method to circumvent such an issue. It is said the most dedicated of the Deathspeakers are near perfect in their imitations.”

  “Then how would we tell them apart?” she asked.

  “In your estimation, have you ever come across a person who has no enemies, who always seems to fit in?” Charra asked.

  Irmina contemplated the question for a moment before she nodded. “Sakari.”

  “Well, that is what you must look for. Our power resides in the ability to appear as a person who is accepted by all. What one person sees me as, another might not. But one thing remains constant: I will be accepted, even befriended. The worst that might happen would be a slight apprehension. That is what you must mind. Any person who fits in too well.” Charra shifted his gaze to Ancel, his eyes changing color. “I see you have replenished your power. With the use of the correct Etchings, it will enhance your aura sense. It might let you see past our ability to change or nullify our aura.”

  Ancel nodded. “Anything else that might help.”

  Charra shook his head.

  “In that case we should head back now.” Ancel glanced at the sky. “I’d hate for my father to send a search party without Irmina’s presence.”

  Moments later, they were within the Netherwood once more. The daggerpaw king still sat in the copse, his court around him. Irmina passed instructions to him. None of their people were to be hurt. Roars and howls abounded as the message was delivered by thousands of throats.

  Chapter 22

  At full strength after venturing into the Entosis to replenish his power, Ryne Materialized onto the Vallum of Light between the twin towers that formed the Bastions Hope and Forlorn. At three hundred feet, as wide as it was tall, the Vallum was a marvel of white alabaster, feldspar, and steel, the ethereal glow of the essences imbued within its surface ever present. To his left and right, the Bastions stretched another hundred feet into the air. He’d chosen this location because it was the one place no one guarded. After all, which enemy would dare approach the Vallum, much less the two greatest Bastions upon which many an army had shattered?

  The Prima within the Vallum resonated to match that of his Etchings. He could also feel the subtler mingling of Mater within it. The Vallum itself was one of the world’s greatest creations to go along with the Sanctums of Shelter. Through the stone he could sense each Bastion all the way to the four Sanctums far north in Granadia. He knew of no other creations for which the two types of power had been combined. The method to such a Forging was a lost art.

  With one hand on his sword hilt he released a tiny amount of Prima. Power surged. Swelled. His back arched involuntarily with sweet ecstasy. Guided by the Etchings the power grew within him until the circle between the Bastions and the Sanctums completed. Closing his eyes, he let it wash through him, absorbing the details.

  He snapped his eyes open at an odd sensation. A link? But how? He had to be mistaken. But he
wasn’t. Almost frantic, he searched among the Sanctum’s records only a caretaker such as he could access. When he found what he sought he made it a part of his memory and then released his sword. The power bled from him, replacing euphoria with emptiness.

  In his mind’s eye Ryne considered the list he’d recovered. Still uncertain he counted the links to the other Eztezians. Six, with four seals among them. Within the Vallum they were no longer blunted by the ward he Forged against the shade and the netherlings. Brow furrowed in puzzlement, he wondered how he could have missed it, or who it could be. When no answers surfaced he buried the thought with the others he kept locked away before focusing on his current task.

  A vast encampment occupied the Vallum’s western side in Felan. Tents spread as far as he could see like whitecaps on a green and brown ocean. The plains before him boiled with activity as the Tribunal’s army marshaled. They numbered in the hundreds of thousands. Armored Dagodin practiced formations. Dartan and horse cavalry, both heavy and light, took up an entire section of the plains. In robes of gold or silver with crimson trim, the many stripes on their sleeves depicting their rank, High Ashishins inspected their charges. The flowing, pristine white of a few Tribunal members stood out from where they watched the proceedings. He wondered if he would spot any of the Exalted this close to the Vallum or if they’d remained in Felan Mark.

  After confirming Varick’s tent location remained the same, Ryne Materialized. He stepped from the portal, a Forge held ready for unwanted company. When he found no one, he regarded his surroundings. Varick’s tent was sparsely furnished. Common for the man. Maps and a helmet adorned a large table. One of them showed Seti with small figurines placed at strategic locations, many centered on the Netherwood.

  Ryne chose an empty corner of the tent and sat on the ground. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Footsteps approached Varick’s tent. More than one set. The wide-shouldered Knight Commander slipped inside. When his gaze drifted over Ryne, he stopped, and turned back to the opening as the two men behind him were entering. “Marren, Codar, fetch Knight Generals Strom, Clovis and Refald.”

  “Yes, sir,” the men said, dropping the tent’s flaps.

  Varick’s silver armor, filigreed with the Tribunal’s Lightstorm insignia, fit him as if the man was born to it. Flat gray eyes stared at Ryne. After a moment he said, “I knew you would come. Are you here to kill me?” Varick made sure to keep his hand well away from his sword.

  “It would make things a lot easier, cutting off this army by taking its head.” Ryne remained seated. “But considering who I’m really fighting, I doubt that would work. Although it might be fun seeing Clovis fumble around, trying to lead men.”

  Varick offered him a slight smile, tension draining from his face. “He’s come a long way since you last saw him. Strom and him both.”

  “Strom doesn’t surprise me. He seemed as if he would be capable. The other one …” Ryne grimaced.

  “So, my old friend, if I’m still allowed to call you such, what is it you seek?” Varick approached the table, confidence brimming once more.

  “Always a friend, Varick,” he said reassuringly, “but old? Me? I seem to recall you having gray hair not so long ago. And black before that. It’s been what? Two years? And here you are with as much white on your head as one of the Exalted.”

  “The mere fact that you remember when this mop of mine was black proves my point.” Smiling in earnest now, Varick ran his hand through white hair sprinkled with silver. “The joys of the job. Could you imagine having to deal with someone like yourself or with Stefan Dorn? How’s he doing by the way?”

  “Some days are better than others. When they took his wife he lost a bit of himself. With Galiana’s death he’s become a shell of the man you knew. Perhaps not that man at all.” Ryne recalled Stefan’s recent sparring sessions and his appearance and demeanor as he planned their defenses. “This battle against you, though. It’s given him something back.”

  Varick stopped at the table and regarded the map. “It’s not like I want this fight. Some parts of Granadia are still in turmoil, particularly Sendeth and Doster. I’d rather be there helping, but we’ve had to rely on mercenaries and other undesirables to capture escaped Matii. A lack of Pathfinders have only compounded the issue.”

  “I’ve never known you to be a man who is forced into any decision.”

  “Then you’ve never had the Tribunal and the bloody Exalted breathing down your neck.” The Knight Commander faced Ryne, voice rising in pitch. “What were you thinking? Attacking the Iluminus? Involving yourself with this so-called Gray Council? I always thought you wanted to stay well away from Tribunal affairs. In Ilumni’s name, Ryne, have you gone mad?”

  “No. My memories have finally returned, old friend. I know who and what I am.”

  Varick’s eyes narrowed. “So tell me.”

  “I’m an Eztezian. My name is Thanairen. I still prefer Ryne, though.”

  Varick raised one white eyebrow before he chuckled. A hearty sound. The chuckle grew to a cackle.

  Fingers drumming his legs where he sat, Ryne waited for the laughter to end.

  Varick finally wheezed to a stop. After he caught his breath he said, “You are mad. Tell me, is it the effects of Mater taking its toll? For years there’s been stories that the Pathfinders have a way around it. I can—” His forehead wrinkled. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really believe—” Varick shook his head.

  “It explains quite a bit,” Ryne said. “Including why that High Ashishin who was under the shade’s influence wanted me all those years ago. How I was able to defeat him, and so many others.”

  “Listen to yourself, man.” Varick raised his arms pleadingly. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve wanted to discover who you are, why you exist, why you’re here. And this is what you grasp for? Someone has gotten into your head. To believe you’re one of the gods’ creations, a protector of all … preposterous.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

  “We’ve known each other too many years to play each other for fools. You’re trying to distract me.” The Knight Commander gave him a small smile. “And I must admit it almost worked. I thought you might show up like you often did to our enemies in the past, trying to convince me not to go forward with this battle before you killed me. But to go about it this way? “ He shook his head. “Not what I expected.”

  “You remember what happened at the Battle for Castere?” Ryne drew on the memories within his Etchings.

  “Of course. I was there.”

  Focusing on the moment Jerem transported them into Castere, Ryne conjured the recollection into reality. A translucent blue sphere formed in front of him. Within its surface the battle replayed until the moment they had captured the main courtyard in the Inner Ring.

  Varick gasped. “How did you—I’ve never seen …”

  “Memories. Since you were there you can confirm that what I showed you was the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, tell me what your reports said about the attack on the Iluminus.”

  As Varick relayed the information passed to him from various sources, Ryne took note of the inconsistencies. The entire situation had been reported as an uprising by two factions seeking to break away from the Tribunal in the name of the old Setian Empire, factions that had groomed Matii through the use of the Granadia’s Mysteras. It came as no surprise the Tribunal made it seem as if their forces had disabused the enemy.

  When Varick finished, Ryne asked, “Isn’t it odd that the Tribunal didn’t send for the troops you had here?”

  “Apparently that was all a part of their stratagem devised from their many spies. If not for our presence here the upstarts from the Mysteras would’ve all escaped.”

  “Which is exactly why we went to the Iluminus,” Ryne said. “It provided the best way to not only free those who’d been taken by the Exalted, but the majority of the Tribunal’s army was here.”

  “A sound e
nough plan,” Varick mused. “If a bit desperate.”

  “Have you visited the Iluminus since then, using the Travelshafts?” Ryne inquired.

  “I tried but the zyphyl was killed during the battle.”

  “Not killed. Freed.”

  “What?”

  “It’s better if I showed you.”

  Ryne tapped into the records he’d drawn from the Sanctums. The translucent sphere bloomed again, sky blue within the tent’s confines. This time, the battle at the Iluminus played. Irmina’s forces struggled against the Tribunal’s, but in some areas they held their ground. Exalted Buneri watched over the battle from a tower. With a thought Ryne focused on the man as several Matii attacked him. From a somewhat fragile old man in flowing robes, Buneri transformed into a netherling, complete with ebon armor, tentacles, and snake-like minions. He proceeded to decimate the combined Dosteri and Eldanhill army.

  Another shift and Ryne brought the recollection to bear on High Shin Hardan, the Pathfinder overseer. He too dropped his guise as a man, body stretching, shifting. In a blur he covered the space between himself and Buneri. Screeching and wailing the two netherlings fought in the sky above the Iluminus.

  Moments later the Travelshaft activated. Matii and soldiers poured forth. The cobbles and ground flowed into shapes among the Tribunal’s warriors. A Svenzar appeared, along with several thousand Sven, and their skittering, hard-shelled footsoldiers, the gerde. They laid waste to their enemies.

  What followed next was a combined attack by Galiana, Jerem, and several other High Shins. Their Forgings seared the air. The Tribunal’s army appeared ready to break.

  Until Hardan died.

  With nothing to stop him, Buneri single-handedly decimated the opposing Matii. When the Travelshaft activated once more, this time its zyphyl surged up like liquid silversteel and joined the fight against Buneri. Black tentacles met lightning charges.

  The gathered Dosteri and Eldanhill army began to retreat toward the Vallum. Galiana stepped forward, drawing Mater, using the Vallum itself to power her Forgings. She and the zyphyl fought Buneri and the Tribunal’s Matii.