Embers of a Broken Throne

by Terry C. Simpson

  She sucked in a deep breath filled with the scent of wet stone and moss. The cold air cleared her head, abruptly making her aware of the chill that clung to her from her soaked clothes. Determined, she ignored a need to shiver, and set about her task.

  Her mind drifted into the Eye where she could sift her emotions, pluck those she needed, taking a chaotic mass, and from it, create order. Within the Eye she floated on nothingness. She sensed the part of her from which she would draw on Mater as if it were an extension of her will, the voices inhabiting the power that shaped the world even now whispering their temptations. Shut out from her core, they did little more than buzz and had even less effect. In the larger share of mind, opened up since taming the zyphyl, a different power resided. From it she called on her beasts.

  Her will extended to the daggerpaw king. In Charra’s company somewhere to the south, he was waiting for the rest of the forest’s inhabitants, the ones not protecting the Entosis, to attain their planned locations. Charra’s presence still remained, a whisper compared to what it had been at first. She let them be for the moment.

  Shifting focus, she centered on the zyphyl. Her mind soared into the gray-infested sky amid brilliant flashes. Instead of drenched leather and cloth she wore skin of silversteel, blood of air and water essences, her body a sinuous form stretching some hundred feet or more. Lightning seared her vision, each bolt stabbing into her. From sheer reflex she thought to cry out, to flinch, but instead she welcomed the storm’s energy, devoured its fury. Each surge added to power crackling around her in white, blue, and violet hues.

  Slowly, the effect of her merging faded, her consciousness separating from the zyphyl’s to exist in its own area within the creature’s mind. With her presence came a swirl of ideas, thoughts, questions, all thrust upon her at once. Each varied. Each originated from a different location in the world. Each belonged to a zyphyl.

  “So you have come again,” her zyphyl said in a soft voice that carried a hint of metal sliding on metal.

  “Yes.”

  “And this time you have learned to control the flood we place upon you.” The zyphyl sounded pleased.

  She nodded, knowing the act would carry the impression to the creature. The first time she’d touched this zyphyl’s consciousness, venturing deeper than she ever had before, it had triggered the merge. She learned two things then: the majority of the zyphyls had abandoned their Travelshafts, heading for their home in Everland; and the zyphyls shared knowledge. According to her pet, they were all of one mind.

  “I come to you with a task,” Irmina said.

  “You who have given us freedom have but to ask.”

  “The netherlings, they are of different castes, different intentions, loyalties …”

  “So are all humans.”

  “And as many of us as have passed through your kind, can you tell which of us mean well? Or have darker intentions?”

  The zyphyl took a moment, pondering, and then answered. “For those aligned with the shade, we can. For any creature so inclined we can sense the difference. Our creators made us so.”

  “What if I showed you where there might be netherlings? Could you try something similar?” She’d thought about this for some time now. Anything the zyphyl could offer, no matter how slight, might make a difference.

  Another pause.

  When the response arrived, it was deeper, resonant, brimming with overtones like a hundred singers performing a chorus. “Show us.”

  Irmina delved into her memories, replaying all she’d learned from Charra. To it, she added visions of Sakari, Buneri, and Hardan. She guided the zyphyl to the tents that housed the Pathfinders and the netherlings among them.

  What felt like an eternity passed as the zyphyls absorbed the information, but she knew it had only been mere heartbeats. The responses echoed in a flurry, each separate but so fast she wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart if not connected to their minds. Her brow puckered against the thought that the information relay had deviated to one central location before returning to her.

  “Sometimes I wonder if the gods still actively meddle in men’s affairs,” said a deep voice, the tone that of someone with a wistful smile.

  Irmina recoiled. This was the first time she ever had such an overwhelming sense of singularity from the zyphyls. The voice conveyed authority and near endless wisdom.

  “I am all of that and more. No need to be afraid of me. Here, I will show you.”

  An almost physical presence grasped her mind like a vise. Recollections shot through her, injected in a dizzying haze, all vivid color and sensations, alive, the kick and cry of a newborn, the arms of a happy mother. A boy learned he was special. He communed with beasts. He grew to a man garbed in armor one day, in dazzling white the next, in gold another, at times battling hundreds, at others, making love. In one scene the man tamed his first creature and became renowned. But that didn’t last. People feared him. Eventually the man died. Not his physical self, but his spiritual.

  And finally, peace.

  In the span of a heartbeat she lived a thousand lives, his lives, died a thousand deaths, loved, hated, tasted the bitter pain of sorrow, the sweet ecstasy of elation, battled men and gods, creatures with no names. Through it all he was reshaped into something more, but not once did he surrender. One word echoed in her mind.

  Perseverance.

  “And so I am,” the voice wheezed, a man speaking through clenched teeth, chest heaving with every word.

  “Wh-what are you?” Irmina’s lips quivered.

  “Hope, possibly. Despair, maybe,” came the reply as Irmina sensed a shrug of shoulders on a body so ancient it had lost the ability to move. “A balance of both. I was once known as Jenoah Merinian.”

  She gasped, thoughts immediately shifting to Galiana as the first Exalted Jenoah Amelie.

  “My daughter,” the voice said. “It pleases me to know she took my name.”

  Another set of images assailed her, these ones less volatile, more a transference of what she needed to know, of what the zyphyls relayed. She gaped as it unfolded, her blood running cold.

  The netherlings and their castes among the folk in Benez were laid bare before her. With the revelation, a sensation stirred deep in her belly, fire and ice, a gale like the storm around her. The fire rekindled a need to kill. When she thought of what the revelation meant for Ancel, she became terrified for him.

  “No.”

  The command stilled her.

  “Seek the Eye.”

  She obeyed, uncertain as to when she’d lost a hold of it. “We have to tell him.” Her stomach fluttered.

  “Not yet. He isn’t ready. His fight lies in the Broken Lands. He must find victory there before he visits me. Then, and only then, will the both of you be prepared for the true battle. Now, allow me to show you the secrets of a Tamer.”

  Merinian’s knowledge assailed her.

  Chapter 25

  Ryne Materialized in the Rotted Forest, its swelter like sitting in a steam bath. Black trees towered, ichor dripping from their trunks, leaves little more than spotted infections, roots snaking their way up through leafy mush. The ripe stench of death and rot washed over him, a battlefield left to stew in the juices of the slain. He knew to keep away from the dense brush and branches that hung low across what seemed to be paths. All traps for the trees to feast. Animal and birdcalls echoed. The occasional twig snapped as some predator stalked the brush, no doubt considering him for the next meal. Unlike when he’d been here during the War of Remnants, most knew to keep clear, recognizing him for what he was.

  Nearby bushes shook. Tensing, Ryne slid his hand to his sword hilt.

  An infected lapra emerged, several times larger than an oversized wolf. As with much of the Rotted Forest’s denizens, its aura shone with a dull, gray pallor. Fluid dripped from pink flesh, oozing over splotchy fur made blacker by decay. The beast reared, two forepaws raised while relying on the other four limbs to stand. Red eyes shone above a broad
muzzle.

  Body frozen, Ryne kept eye contact with the infected lapra. Not that he would fail to kill the creature, but doing so was likely to lure its pack. As strong as he was, they could still prove a test here where they held sway. He would rather conserve his Prima. After sniffing the air and releasing a snort, the lapra melted among the undergrowth.

  Breathing easier, Ryne judged his bearings based on tree height, density, and a nearby ward carved into a bole. Once certain of his location he broke into a jog toward the forest’s eastern edge and the Broken Lands beyond. Some three hundred feet into his trek the awareness of someone following him crept across the back of his neck.

  He continued on, pretending he was unaware of their presence. From the corner of his eyes he picked out the telltale blur of men moving abnormally fast, dark tendrils spilling from their auras. Corrupted shade. When he was a few dozen feet from the crack of light and the reddish haze ahead that spoke of the forest’s end and the Broken Lands proper, they attacked.

  They bounded from among the brush and branches, three on each side. Dressed in deep green, faces covered in Alzari war paint, they immediately dived into Styles and Stances pertaining to the Forms. Quick as thought they were on him, black daggers twirling as they stabbed and sliced. Each strike was true, unrelenting, swift, steadfast violence that could only be met with the same.

  Ryne smiled. Through his Etchings he called on the shade. It was like stretching muscles long dormant due to nonuse. From the surrounding trees, from the Alzari assassins themselves, the essence pumped toward him, blood from a sliced artery. Shade congealed into his protective aura.

  The Alzari blades met that barrier and froze. His assailants’ eyes widened. Ryne even heard one of them gasp.

  Alzari had a lifelong connection with their weapons. The blades were handed to them from birth. An Alzari would rather die than part with his blade.

  So die they did.

  Shade shot from the aura, across the blades, and into the men. Their veins blackened with it, a spiderweb that chased their blood flow, found their hearts, and stilled them. Last breaths left their lips in whispers. When their bodies fell, they were nothing more than desiccated corpses.

  Engulfed by the sweet throes of life and death, Ryne stretched his neck from side to side. Sela essences coursed through him. The power such a taking brought made him feel as if he could battle the world. Pausing for a few moments he let the euphoria dwindle, and then he jogged the last few feet from the stinking forest.

  Stepping from the Rotted Forest into the Broken Lands was akin to striding from a heated room into the hearth itself. The air reeked, a mix of rotten eggs and the incenses used in temples across Denestia. Ryne imagined this must be how Hydae felt. Heat spilled in waves across the landscape. It rose from the rents that littered the ground for as far as his eyes could see. Smoke spurted, steam hissed, underground water meeting molten rock. Lava-filled chasms spread across the landscape, giant, jagged mouths glowing red.

  Despite the blasted nature of the land, it supported hardy brush and plants, life that had long adapted to extreme heat. All of it showed signs of being burned. And not by natural occurrences.

  Pillars of smoke rose in the distance to match the clouds. Brief flashes radiated in the bloated gray mass. Thunder growled. Ryne counted each plume’s location, taking note of the areas where several climbed the air together. With each increasing number he grew numb.

  Amuni’s Children and its shadeling armies had marched across the Broken Lands at unbelievable speed. Of the dozen cities before Kajeta, only three remained. More than ever now Delesden’s decision to move the Chainin from Cardia to his stronghold seemed a mistake. Ryne still couldn’t fathom the reason, but it was no longer of consequence.

  Turning, he Shimmered back into the forest to the ward he’d left behind. Once there, he opened a portal to Seti. Heart thumping, he stepped through into one of Ostania’s thunderstorms and raced headlong toward Benez to warn Ancel. However fast he travelled, he couldn’t suppress the feeling that they would be too late.

  Chapter 26

  Ancel left his father and Lord Traushen to their conversation. He grinned every time he thought of the unbridled pleasure written in Stefan’s features, the life in his eyes. It brought back memories of his early life in Eldanhill before all the madness, before nightmares began to stalk him. Years when he was simply a wealthy vintner’s son. Days when they both enjoyed Mother’s cooking, the last dinner she made the evening he left for Randane when this all began. With a heavy sigh he plodded down the hall.

  At the main door he paused to pull the hood of his cloak over his head and nodded to one of two guards who opened the door and let him out. Overhead, the clouds had stolen the sky and spirited away Denestia’s setting sun and the rising twin moons. From where he stood he should’ve have been able to see the entire city spread before him past the fallen colonnade, but a slanting gray sheet greeted him, raindrops drumming on the cobbles to their own tune. At least the deluge gave the city a fresh scent. That of new life. Bobbing luminescent balls drifted along the avenues. Radiant spirits, a more imaginative person might have said, except these traveled an ordered pattern before meeting each other, pausing, and then heading back the way they’d come. If he squinted he could just make out the glint of armor from the patrols.

  The slight affinity he developed with Irmina said she was up on the nearby bulwark. Assuming she must also be using a lightstone, he peered in her direction, trying to spot her atop the battlements. He sighed when his efforts proved fruitless. The way she remained in place said she must be in contact with one of her pets.

  A pull on his mind from farther south reminded him of Ryne’s return. If his mentor had succeeded it would make the day complete. Thoughts of Ryne brought on a frown. Since the trip to the Entosis and the connection with Charra, he had several questions. The first of which would be to discover why Ryne had provided the first creatures to inhabit the Netherwood. Another one of those secrets, he assumed. This time he planned not to relent without answers.

  His frown deepened, the memory of Charra’s revelations invading his thoughts. Since this all began he’d dreamed of Hydae and Jenoah. From those nightmares he conjured images of what the Nether must be like. Not once did he fathom it to be as Charra had shown, a black nothingness from which every creature was born, where it appeared any man’s origins might be altered. As much a threat as the shade was proving to be, the Nine and the netherlings in general might be even greater. Too many mysteries shrouded them.

  To be assured of victory a warrior must know his enemy better than he knows himself. Those words from the Disciplines had rung true in every battle they’d fought. When he’d dashed headlong into Randane, allowing Jillian’s treachery to goad him, he’d lost Kachien and almost the rest of Eldanhill. He’d done even worse when he’d gone after the deserters. Repeating the same mistake now would be the equivalent of staring disaster in the eye and daring it to spit on him. And it would too, with a jarring defeat from which they might not recover.

  Words from the Chronicle of Undeath replayed in his head.

  Yet hope dwells within the Entosis,

  Guarded and kept by the blood of the Aegis

  Through destiny’s doors

  And from within a temple’s floors

  It begins and ends with Etchings.

  He didn’t know what all of it meant, but events had already shown the importance of the Entosis and his Etchings. When the zyphyl had exposed him to the Planes of Existence, he’d witnessed much of the same. All possibilities. The Planes of If, the creature had said. One place drew him and promised answers.

  He strode down the stairs, the wind tugging at his cloak, and headed for the stables. The city’s natural incline was doing its job maybe a little too well as water runoff sloshed about his feet. At some point he would ask for volunteers to clear the drains. When he arrived at the stables he got one of the attendants to prepare a dartan, thinking the hard-shelled animal would prov
e less of a morsel for the Netherwood’s denizens.

  After securing several lightstones on the animal, he climbed into the hollow carved in the dartan’s shell and stretched his legs out in front of him. The beast mewled. Ancel pulled at the top of his gloves for a more snug fit, grabbed the chain reins from where they hung in front of him, and shook them. Metal clinked on shell as the dartan mewled once more before ambling down the avenue, its six feet splashing through water.

  A wide, familiar form he hadn’t seen since they entered the city stepped out in front of him. Danvir was wearing clothes fit for travel, complete with a cloak, leather boots and a sword in a scabbard on his hip.

  “Hail, Dan. I’m glad you came—”

  “I just came to say goodbye,” Danvir said, expression stony.

  “Goodbye? Where are you off to?” Ancel hadn’t believed what he’d heard from Mirza or Guthrie.

  “I know the others must have told you … my father for certain. They say the Netherwood is somewhat safe now, so I’m heading to Felan and the Vallum. Maybe back to Granadia. Who knows? I might go all the way west to Danindad or Torsen. That should keep me away from this war of yours.”

  Ancel almost said ‘ours’, but his friend’s expression said such words were pointless. Danvir had made up his mind. The Setian were no people of his. “What of Alys?”

  “She’s coming with me. After what her father did, she doesn’t feel welcome or safe.”

  He could understand her feelings. If his father had betrayed them he would want to hide also. “Well, if you’re certain this is right for you, then I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Goodbye.” Danvir’s eyes glinted wetly before he turned away.

  “Dan?”

  The other young man stopped but kept his head facing the night.

  “Don’t join the Tribunal’s armies. It won’t end well if you do.” With that, Ancel whipped the chain reins. He’d let go a part of his life, people he’d known since he could walk, but if they stood against what was right, if they stood for those who’d made his father suffer, he would have no pity. Life was full of hard lessons, this one harder than most.