Embers of a Broken Throne

by Terry C. Simpson

  “No worries.” Ryne headed to the cushions and sat with his legs folded under him.

  “As I was saying.” Ancel produced a rolled parchment, brown with age, from a pouch at his waist. He stooped near Ryne and unraveled the paper. “You’ve been studying Ostania for some time now, Mirz, and Ryne, you should know the place well.”

  Mirza drew up a chair near them. “What’s the issue?”

  Ancel pointed to a section of the map where the symbols were drawn to give the impression of massive rents in the earth similar to that shown on the Setian flag. To the west, the Rotted Forest bordered the area, to the north, an unnamed mountain range Ryne knew as the Riven Reaches, and to the south, the Lost Sea. “These are the Broken Lands.” He tapped Kajeta to the far east where it rested in the Flaming Reaches. “I need to find a way here across territory overrun with shadelings before the city falls and our chances with it. But I can’t Materialize there. Could a Forger at least Shimmer Ryne?”

  Ryne nodded. “But I doubt any man or woman could Shimmer all the way to Kajeta. That much Forging and they’d be sure to expend their sela.” He left the rest unsaid.

  Ancel grunted in frustration.

  While he scratched at his scalp, Mirza studied the map, puckering his lips several times. “How many shadelings are we talking?”

  “A dozen banes at least, possibly twice that,” Ryne said.

  Mirza whistled. “So, somewhere in the region of sixty to a hundred and twenty thousand. Crowded in that space they would be near impossible to avoid.”

  “Exactly,” Ancel said.

  “Even if you managed to find a way to travel fast enough you’d need a distraction.” Mirza tapped the unnamed mountains. “Preferably from here descending into the Broken Lands, if possible. Makes them visible to the enemy. It needs to be a force large enough that they wouldn’t ignore. When they respond,” he added, tapping the Rotted Forest’s southern region, “you bring your smaller group through here.”

  “Hmm, it could work,” Ryne said. “But the generals within Amuni’s Children aren’t stupid. Neither are the archdaemons among the shadelings. They will spot a diversion.”

  “Then I need to make it as credible as possible.” Ancel stood and began to pace. “What I lack is a large enough army to help make up for what the Desorin might have already lost.”

  Ryne smiled. He knew exactly where to gain assistance. He told them of the battle at Castere. “Your sister should be able to help since I freed up a large portion of her army.”

  “I swear the gods love you,” Mirza said to Ancel. “When you need help it appears.”

  “It seems that way,” said Ancel, white teeth showing in grin, and then he grew serious. “But you know what Galiana always used to say. ‘When several separate events occur at an opportune or an inopportune time, people call it coincidence.’” Mirza joined in. “‘Coincidence, my students, is nothing more than the birth child of intricate planning.’” They chuckled.

  “I miss her,” Mirza said.

  “Me too.” Ancel remained quiet a moment before he asked, “So, what do you think?”

  “Regardless of coincidence or some plot, you should take advantage of the situation,” Mirza said. “She’s your sister, after all. And Ilumni help us if she’s anything like you.” They both laughed.

  “Well,” Ancel said when their mirth subsided, “the main army, hopefully a combination of hers and some we can spare from here, will travel from this port city in Bana.” He indicated Ostere where it sat at the mouth of the River Ost. “They will follow the coast, land here, and should be able to make Kajeta while we keep Amuni’s Children occupied. Those men will be handpicked by you, Mirz. You’ll lead them.”

  Excitement shone in Mirza’s eyes. “Finally, something other than waiting.”

  “The second, smaller force will be mainly Pathfinders and a few of the best Dagodin. They will go through the Broken Lands like you said, but I’m guessing it will take them days, rather than weeks.”

  The declaration caught Ryne off guard. He studied Ancel. He appreciated the plan and how far the two young men had come since he first met them. It could possibly work but for two problems. “I would ask you how you intend to travel through the Broken Lands as fast as you claim if you can’t Materialize there, but if you intended to share it, you would have done so by now. Understand that if you falter in the crossing, the mission fails. Also, the Lost Sea … there’s a reason it earned the name. No ship has sailed those waters and returned. The mists are so thick one cannot see but a few feet in any direction.”

  “I’ve read about it,” Ancel said, “and trust me, I have a solution for both. The bigger issue will be Stefan’s approval.”

  “One other thing.” Ryne separated various essences, drawing away dust motes, moisture, and other artifacts that clogged the flows of air. Breathing was easy before, but now the cleanliness in the air was like drinking from a fresh spring pool. It was a method he’d learned from the Astocans and Cardians, except the slits on the sides of their necks did it naturally. “Remember that Forge. Teach it to the others. Once created and placed over a person’s nose and mouth it will dispel the poisonous fumes found in the Rotted Forest and the Broken Lands.”

  “Father, I understand how you feel, but if I don’t go, I’ll be limiting what I could possibly do to help.” Ancel had been pleading with Stefan for some time now. “Besides, there’s a Chainin in Kajeta. It has to be destroyed before whatever Skadwaz leads this army can use it.”

  “Let Ryne take care of this, son. I need you here. Your people need you.” Stefan paced back and forth across the meeting room’s carpeted floor. He stopped. “I lost your mother and Galiana. I won’t lose you also. Not after discovering that your sister and brother are alive.”

  “Lord General Dorn,” Jerem interjected. The wispy-haired old man was already in the room when they entered. Ryne still found it hard to believe Jerem was Sol Remus. If not for the man’s aura, he would have challenged Jerem’s claim, but auras did not lie when it came to identity. “I’m afraid your son is right. Nothing good will come of him staying here.”

  “Do you understand what you’re asking of me?” Stefan fixed them all with a glare. Most were of the same opinion: they supported Ancel. “Do you even know what it means to lose a child, to lose a family?”

  “Death’s a part of us. It’s always simple. We spend our entire lives dying,” Ryne said, “from one heartbeat to the next.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He tensed, waiting for Stefan’s reply, ready to defend himself.

  “What?” Stefan bellowed. “Death is a lot of things, but simple? No, never. Frightening, obscure, yes. Look—”

  “I think he means that we’ve all lost someone at some point,” Guthrie said, voice soft. He’d already begun to regain a bit of his weight, face not as sunken as a week ago. “But this isn’t about that.”

  “I haven’t regained my family to risk losing them again.” Stefan began to pace once more. “There must be some other way to go about this.” He stalked back and forth, muttering to himself.

  Relieved, confused, and worried all at once, Ryne watched the elder Dorn.

  Devan stepped forward, his cloak a dark wall draped down his shoulders and back. “I understand how you feel, Stefan. I remember when they took Adel.” Pain echoed in his voice. “But this is a chance to gain another ally, to help save an Eztezian, if what they say is true. In our current state it’s worth the risk.”

  “Who is to say this Eztezian isn’t already dead, Kajeta fallen?” Leukisa’s voice carried a high Harnan lilt, and like the men who inhabited northern Ostania, his skin could pass for dark mahogany.

  Ancel made to speak before glancing in Ryne’s direction. Suspecting the young man’s words, Ryne gave him assent.

  “Because we can feel him, as we can feel each other,” Ancel said. “So I know he lives.”

  “Interesting.” Ordelia interlocked her fingers. The Exalted often seemed to be analyzing Anc
el as a bird watcher might a rare species. “I never heard of such a thing before, but if he tells the truth it can be useful.” Her voice had the texture of dry paper. “Have you any proof to offer?”

  “Why would I lie?” Ancel scowled at the woman.

  “Son,” Stefan said, stopping, “it’s a hard thing to fathom much less believe.”

  Ancel gave his father an odd look, as if taken aback.

  “And then there’s the other issue,” Stefan continued. “Ryne himself admits that you will have to fight a part of this army in the Broken Lands since you cannot Materialize there. What if they trap you, send their entire force against you.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Ancel said. “You trusted me to attack Randane. Extend the same trust to me now. I can do this.”

  “Foolish boasts are things for young men who wish to rush off and make a name for themselves. Instead they end up dead,” Ordelia said, face impassive.

  “I don’t boast.”

  “Then tell us what your plan might be to reach Kajeta in time,” Leukisa urged, a glint in his eye.

  “No.” Ancel held his head higher, back straighter. He stared down the Exalted. “The enemy already knows too much. Things it shouldn’t. This, I keep to myself.”

  “Insolent boy.” Ordelia grimaced. “After all we’ve done you do not trust us?”

  “I trust you as much as I trust a starving horse to ignore oats and water.”

  “Ancel Dorn,” Stefan snapped, “enough of that.”

  The young man glowered sullenly. “Father, if it makes you feel any better, not even Ryne knows of my plan. I intend to keep it that way.” Ryne nodded his confirmation in response to the inquiring glances.

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” Jerem said as he shuffled forward, “but I for one believe in the young man’s ability. If he and Ryne says they can feel the other Eztezians, then it is so. Are we to accept the help they have given us thus far, believe they are the great Guardians, but then doubt what power they might possess?” Despite the way he hunched around a cane, the loose fit of his robes, his skull showing through white wisps, his words carried a weight not to be ignored.

  Sol Remus and Trucida Adler had been well known for their command. The two of them had made kings and queens weep with a mere stare. Jerem might not be the same Remus he was in those days, but he was more than enough. Ryne smiled.

  “I can also confirm Lord Ancel’s claim.” Overseer Cantor’s words were soft but still carried across the room. Unlike the other Pathfinders, he did not wear a full helm, leaving his stark, ebony features and deep-set eyes for everyone to see. “It is a secret kept among the Pathfinders, but if our charge feels the need to reveal it, then so should we.” Cantor bowed to Ancel. “If you wish to proceed with this strike, we will follow.”

  “Does that help to ease your fears?” Jerem asked in Stefan’s direction.

  “It would, but we need the Pathfinders here for this possible attack by the Tribunal,” Stefan said.

  “I think if you spoke to Varick it might help sway him,” Ryne said. “He has nothing but respect for you since the Luminance War.”

  “I-I don’t know if I’m willing to trust anyone from the Tribunal.” Stefan’s face clouded.

  Ryne hated seeing the man like this. Not even torture could’ve broken the Stefan he knew. Perhaps Ancel was right. He hoped when Stefan met his children again some part of him would return, the confident, unrelenting part that refused to budge from his beliefs, the mind that made him one of Denestia’s greatest leaders.

  Cane tapping on the marble floor Jerem went to Stefan’s side. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “I think if Galiana or Thania were here they would have said to let him go.”

  A wistful smile crossed the elder Dorn’s face. “They would have, wouldn’t they?”

  “Yes,” Jerem said. “Besides, think of what your boy did in Randane. You’ve heard the stories. You might not be able to see him for who he has grown to become, but he’s much like you were … strong, determined, and powerful. He will return to you. I will see to it.”

  Stefan gripped the old Exalted’s shoulder in return and nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to his son. “I’ll let you take whatever men and weapons we can spare.”

  The door to the room opened, letting in a chill. A guard ushered in a man. Skin like smooth ebony, three slits flaring open and closed on either side of his neck, and dressed in a shirt with only one sleeve, the other side revealing his painted chest, Lord Traushen appeared as full of himself as Ryne remembered.

  Traushen was all smiles until his gaze passed over Ryne. The Cardian Lord’s face paled, mouth gaping to match his eyes. An instant later his features twisted into a mottled mask of fury and loathing.

  “YOU!” he screamed and flung his hands forward, palms up.

  A swath of air slammed into Ryne’s chest. A million needles of the same flow, invisible to the eye without Matersense, shot toward him. Ryne barely managed to throw up a shield to prevent most of it striking him. His aura absorbed the rest.

  Behind him came a cry. And then a thin line of light swept across Traushen’s arm, took it from the shoulder. His shirt ignited. Another Forging of air sent the Cardian flying into a wall with a dull thud.

  Traushen struggled to his feet, a shield glowing around his body. “That man,” he bellowed “is Nerian the Shadowbearer.”

  Chapter 28

  Numb, Ancel stared at the blood around him. Several of the needle-like projectiles formed from air essences had cut down Mirza, Guthrie, and Devan. Blood leaked from the gashes and holes in their armor and clothes. All the others in the path of Traushen’s attack had managed to shield themselves. Wheezing breaths escaped Guthrie’s mouth. Snot dribbled from his nose. Mirza clutched at the red spreading under his shirt. Quintess, Leukisa, and Berenil were tending to the men. Ancel offered a prayer to the gods that his father had somehow avoided harm.

  Fury boiled in him. Scalding. White hot. It gushed forth, molten liquid poured into a cast of a smith’s choosing. He was the end result. A weapon beat into shape, honed to its finest edge for two purposes. To protect those he loved. To kill those who would hurt them. His bloodlust surged.

  “A long time you have avoided us,” said the jumble of voices in his head.

  “He will kill those dearest to you.”

  “Take from us as you will.”

  “It is ours to give.”

  “Save them with our power.”

  “Kill, kill, kill … Death is the only way.”

  Again and again they called, a tempting susurrus, winds whispering among leaves, offering him power to surpass Prima. Power to conquer. To never lose what was his again. Images bloomed. Denestia in turmoil. Thania and Stefan imprisoned. Corrupted shade devouring the world. Gods and men at battle, fields littered with the dead and dying. These very essences swirled and zipped through the air into friend and foe, infused them with undeniable strength. Strength that conquered gods, reshaped the world, ushered in a new age. It could be his.

  All he had to do to claim what they offered was to surrender. He reached for them.

  Another voice yelled at him. Far away, yet close. It drew him. Frowning, he stopped to listen. Words formed in the eternity between heartbeats.

  The Eye.

  Etchings.

  A familiarity existed in those two words, a lover’s touch long missed, but once again reconciled. More images surged. Kinai, red and ripe and sweet, juicy, ready to be picked at dawn or at dusk, the Spellforge Hour. His mother in the kitchen, aromas of her cooking bringing water to his mouth. Father teaching him swordwork, the basics first. An animal, a baby daggerpaw that he knew to be Charra, as he nursed it back to health. Eyes round and gold, Charra looked up at him.

  “Your mind is your own,” Charra said in the voice from the Entosis, speech in the form of song, a hum of sorts.

  The visions shattered.

  Shivering, Ancel wrenched his will into the Eye, into his Etchings. The voices screamed
their dissent, but they were no longer of consequence. In the tranquil pool deep in himself, he was one with the lily blossoms on its surface.

  When sight and sound returned, Ancel found himself in Ryne’s grasp, the giant’s hands clutching him tightly about the chest from behind. Irmina pushed against him from the front. His body felt as if it was burning. He glanced down to see Mater had engulfed his entire body, but he couldn’t make out the separate essences. They were whole, one, without beginning or end, a circle.

  He thrust them into his Etchings. The burning sensation vanished.

  Irmina’s gaze locked onto his. “He’s back,” she gasped, chest rising and falling as if she’d run a hundred miles.

  “W-What happened.” His voice was a distant echo.

  “You almost gave in to Mater,” Ryne said. “You almost took them all for your own.”

  All feeling fled his legs.

  “Easy.” Ryne held him up.

  The attack rushed Ancel in startling clarity. He snapped his head up toward where he last saw Traushen.

  The Cardian stood unmoving, eyes unfocused. Blood trickled from the slits on either side of his neck. They flared open and closed with each breath. Behind him were several guards, their swords unsheathed.

  “What’s wrong with him,” Ancel asked. “And you may release me now, I’m fine.”

  Ryne unclenched the legs he had for arms. “Ordelia has him.”

  “What’s she done to him?”

  “It’s best if she explains it.” Ryne nodded toward an area away from where Leukisa and the others tended to the wounded men.

  Expression strained, Ordelia faced Traushen. Ancel couldn’t make out a discernible Forge, but he knew she was Forging. He felt it.

  “It’s a blocking Forge,” she said.

  “Like Warping?” He narrowed his eyes. To bend Mater around a person so it was unusable required a death.

  “In ways yes, but not quite,” she said, gritting her teeth from the effort her Forge took. “I can see what you are thinking. You may not like us, but we aren’t all monsters. Killing is unnecessary for this. This is more like Manipulation. You tell the mind not to open to its Matersense.”