Embers of a Broken Throne

by Terry C. Simpson

Irmina sucked in a breath at the mention of her slain ancestor. The earlier conversation surfaced, and with it the need to find Jillian, but she forced it down.

  “Neither is he.” Stefan pointed to the impostor. “He’s something far worse.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” the impostor said, a hand on his sword hilt. “Remember how the shade decimated your ranks. Help me slay him.”

  “I remember when I first had Gavril teach us how to tame dartans. Him and that merchant, what was his name again?”

  “Destin,” Kasimir answered, face impassive.

  Stefan’s smile was so slight it might have been missed. “No, that was the cadet who almost pissed himself when I slew Garrick. A sad day that. The merchant was Vencel.”

  Kasimir backed away, giving the impostor an even wider berth as he spoke to him. “Stefan Dorn was one of the greatest swordsmen to ever grace Denestia. Unless he’s a Skadwaz,” he added with a nod toward Ancel’s father, “I’d say you should be able to take him. If you’re the Stefan Dorn I knew.”

  The netherling snarled. Kasimir took another step back, face ashen, grip straining on his son’s arm.

  “He won’t attack you, Garon,” Stefan said. “None of them will, not unless you strike at them first. The netherling pact binds them.”

  Etchings aglow, Stefan strode onto the message map. The moment he stood at its center the luminance bled from him. The light flowed into the map, spreading around the replica of Benez. “Kas, Guthrie, and Devan, the wards are now gone. Order your men to stay their hands. Allow Varick into the city.”

  Steel rasped on leather. Steyn’s sword had barely left its sheath before Stefan darted next to the man. A metallic glint in Idnal’s hand showed he also bore a weapon. Irmina didn’t see Stefan’s blade leave its scabbard, but she knew it had. Both assailants were left clutching stumps that spurted blood. Stefan ran them through. Irmina stared slack-faced, both at Stefan’s skill and the fact that Idnal and Steyn had been traitors all along.

  “You won’t stop the bloodshed,” the impostor boasted. “Some of your own know exactly who I am, who they serve. There will be a war.”

  Stefan smiled at the creature. “You’re correct. I’d hoped to avoid a fight with you, thinking that exposing you would be enough, that if I didn’t attack, you’d have no choice but to leave. You and all of yours.” He tilted his head toward the other three soldiers. “But sometimes an example needs to be set. Fear. Fear is such a great motivator of men.” He said those last words as if he savored them.

  Ancel’s father held his hand out over the map and formed a fist. An image appeared, a twin to their current room. Irmina raised her arm slowly. Within the image a person she knew to be herself repeated her action.

  “Now, everyone in the city can see what happens here.” Still smiling, Stefan sauntered over to the impostor. “You feel it, don’t you? A lack of nethersela for your transformation? You’d have to open a rift to the Nether to gain enough. Do you think you could achieve it before I took your head?”

  “I— ”

  Stefan sheathed his weapon.

  The netherling’s head parted from its shoulders. Irmina gaped, eyes bulging. She hadn’t seen the blow.

  “I guess not.” Stefan shrugged, and turned to the other three. “My son can identify all of you. I will give you this one chance to gather your people and flee.”

  A black slit appeared next to the netherlings in the guise of men. Without averting their eyes, they retreated into its recesses.

  “Cowards.” Stefan grimaced, still focused on the area where the portals had appeared and disappeared. “They probably could have defeated us.” After a moment he inhaled long and slow before he regarded everyone in the room with his single good eye. “An uncertain road lies ahead for us all, but at least we can weed the enemy from our midst. The coming months will bring war on a scale not seen since the gods walked Denestia. There will be no assurances. Few of us original Eztezians are left. When the last one passes, the netherling pact dies with him.”

  Gasps spread around the room. More than one person muttered a prayer.

  Stefan continued. “We worked tirelessly to produce people who could break the seals before the ones who hunt the gods gained enough power for their goal. But our time is almost done. No one foresaw the religious strife between the races. We thought they would be more like us, able to ignore which gods people worshipped, not let bias affect their choices. We were wrong.

  “As much as we thought we could tinker with the future, change things, we made them worse. The Nine saw our weakness, our need for more power to ensure each race thrived, and they used it against us. They gave us more power, the ability to Forge Prima through our Etchings.

  “But it was a ploy. Once a man has a taste of a godlike ability he naturally craves more. Soon we realized we could draw on Mater in the same fashion, enhance it further. But Mater is attuned to man. It could be twisted by thought, by death, and in the end harvested by the Nine and their minions. For years we unwittingly fed them until we began to see the destruction, the darkness that was creeping across the world. By the time we realized the Nine’s purpose we were shells of our former selves. We knew only the gods, who themselves had been afraid of their own strengths and weaknesses, could save us.

  “We fought the gods when we felt they were doing more harm than good, not knowing the Nine were trying to steal the power the gods wielded, were trying to prevent them from sealing themselves away for our sake. And now, intent on freeing the gods, we fight the netherlings, even as they seek to infiltrate the gods’ prison and destroy them.” His attention shifted to Ancel. “I’m sorry this has been thrust upon you, son, and your brother and sister. At the same time I’m proud of your courage.”

  Tears brimmed in Stefan’s eyes when he spoke to the others. “I’m also proud of the rest of you. As strange as it might be to know I’m someone different than you grew to know, also realize I’m the same person, the same Stefan the Steadfast. I won’t abandon you now. When I promised peace so long ago, I meant it, even if it was a peace meant for our future.”

  “What do we do now,” Kasimir asked.

  “Marshal your armies. Our armies. Take Charra out among them to identify any netherling who might be an enemy. By then I should have returned.”

  “Where are you going?” Guthrie and Devan had moved closer, awe still plain in their features.

  “I go to my wife and to see if my son can take what is his. After that, we shall see.”

  At those words, Irmina couldn’t help the heaviness in her heart. Ancel had already changed. She wondered what would be left of him.

  Chapter 47

  Sitting in the chamber, watching the message map, and the reports between each Bastion, Ryne felt the portal open within the Sanctums of Shelter. He counted the links as each entered. Five. He closed his eyes, heart heavy. He’d hoped Merinian would have lived. At the same time he suspected the Eztezian’s mind had already broken. Millennia spent Forging, tinkering with futures, even minutely, resulted in one outcome. They all knew their fates and accepted them long ago.

  Stefan Dorn was the first one through the door. His appearance made Ryne grit his teeth at the agony the man must have suffered. Stefan was a sinewy imitation of the man he once knew, scars under his Etchings, a mass of tissue hiding one eye, the other shining with its usual intensity.

  Behind him strode King Kalvor in his Etching-covered armor for a change, the metal a part of him. His creased brow spoke of worry.

  The three Dorn siblings entered together, Charra’s form blotting the hallway behind them. If not for the difference in sex and dress it would be difficult to tell them apart. Anton’s face was impassive, which Ryne had expected. Clothed in his favorite leather armor, Ancel seemed uncertain, averting his eyes. Celina, on the other hand, stared straight at Ryne, jaw grinding, face dark with rage.

  “Thanairen, it’s good to see you as your old self rather than the monster chosen for you.” Stefan stopped opposite
Ryne.

  Ryne greeted the man with a bow. “I prefer Ryne, now.”

  “You do?”

  “Change,” Ryne said, shrugging, “the gods weren’t immune to it, and neither are we. Becoming other people transformed us completely. Even if the old versions of ourselves are buried deep inside of us and still creep to the surface at times, we’re all new people.”

  “Does those old selves include the creature that tried to kill us?” Celina’s voice was quiet, filled with hate.

  “I wish I could deny him.” Ryne met Celina’s hard stare. “But he is as much a part of me as when I was known as the Lightbearer.”

  She took a step forward. The Etchings showing along the portion of her forearms uncovered by her armor began to glow. So did those peeking from her neckline. “I could destroy you right now.”

  “You hold your full power, so you most likely could.” Ryne did not allow his voice to quaver. “But what purpose would it serve?”

  “Revenge for all the death and suffering you’ve caused.”

  “Oh?” He tilted his head. “Tell me, of what race are you?”

  Frowning, she paused with her mouth open. “Setian,” she said finally.

  “And yet you’re Queen Lina of Cardia. Not a Cardian. In a kingdom whose people once would only bend knee to their own, and even then, grudgingly. How many wars, how many lost lives, how many families torn apart, how much suffering do you think your rule has caused all in the name of securing the foothold Sakari and the other Eztezians told you would be needed? How much suffering do you think Lestere and Henden caused?”

  She made to answer before she snapped her mouth shut. Her hands dug into her palms. “It’s not the same.”

  “If that’s what you wish to tell yourself at night.”

  “What of me then?” Ancel’s deep voice boomed across the room. He paused for a moment as the echo drifted away. “I’ve done none of these things, none of these atrocities. Why did my people, my father, and the others have to suffer?”

  Ryne regarded the young man, a sense of melancholy washing over him. “Whatever happened to your father and your mother was up to them. You can ask him if you wish, but you already know, don’t you?” The next part crushed his heart. “As for thinking you haven’t done anything, I’m certain there are a few cities you avoided in the Broken Lands, places and peoples you might have been able to save, yet you let them be, because you had a larger goal. There’s also a small village in Calisto’s Gap, isn’t there? Or there was.”

  Ancel shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. “I felt betrayed by you. In order to defeat you, I had no choice. In order to rescue my father, I had no choice. You drove me to all of that.”

  “You can blame me if you wish, but you enjoyed some of it, which is fine,” Ryne said, trying to offer some comfort. “That darkness needed to be a part of you. We cannot be who we are by being completely benevolent. Of that I am certain. As are you now.

  “You three, more than any others, have a reason to want my death. Together you could kill me. But at the same time you would be denying what it is that had to be done. Someone had to carry the brunt of the shade. Someone had to carry the darkness. I won that toss. I wielded it with joy. It is the same way you must wield it, Ancel. No regrets.”

  “He is right,” said a raspy voice from behind Ryne.

  The three Dorn children stood with their mouths opened even as their father’s eyes brimmed with tears. Ryne turned to gaze upon Thania Dorn.

  Chapter 48

  “Mother,” Ancel cried at the same time as Celina and Anton.

  They rushed to Thania’s side, the conversation with Ryne forgotten. She was lying on a bed, most of her body hidden by a blanket. A spiderweb of dark veins spread along her face and neck. The same discoloration marred her arms. Her eyes were black globes with a single golden pinpoint. With his improved sense Ancel took in her waning aura.

  “I’m so happy to see you all, whole and healthy,” she whispered. Frail fingers stroked the back of Ancel’s hand.

  Both Celina and Anton were sobbing, and Ancel couldn’t help himself. He burst into tears.

  “Mother, you will be fine, won’t you?” Celina asked, voice choked, eyes feverish.

  Anton was muttering prayers. Ancel knelt at his mother’s side, his mind replaying the mending he’d seen used by Galiana on so many different occasions. A part of him reached inside himself, wanted to Forge, to fix what was wrong. The other part fought against it. All the while the voices of Mater gibbered in his head.

  A firm hand rested on Ancel’s shoulder as Stefan loomed over them. “Don’t.” To his wife, he said, “I miss you, my love.”

  “And I you,” Thania answered. Her eyes watered. “Ancel,” she said tenderly, “release your grip on Mater and Prima. They cannot help in this. What will be, must be.”

  Images of his mother being dragged off by Mensa played through Ancel’s head. So did all the good times they’d spent together, the lunches, dinners, walks through the Greenleaf Woods when he was a child, it all came roaring back. Within it, he pictured her suffering. He stood, heat to challenge the sun streaming from him. Cold suffused him. To his own eyes, everything glowed.

  “There will be a time for you to wield all you have.” His mother’s voice was distant yet soothing. “That time is not now. There is nothing to heal here, no vengeance to be had. I knew my fate long ago. You see this as the end, but Charra showed you differently. This is but another beginning for me. What I am now is a part of what I will become. Losing yourself now means losing everything.”

  “What do you mean, Mother?” Celina clung to Thania’s hand.

  “You can’t die now, not after we’re finally with you again,” Anton pleaded. “You cannot. You simply cannot.”

  Ancel felt as if he could destroy anything with one swing of his hand, as if he could heal anything. The voices in his mind said so. But another presence said his power wasn’t all encompassing.

  Master yourself.

  Galiana’s voice as if she stood next to him.

  He didn’t seek the Eye. He let his emotions roam. And then with an effort of sheer will he snuffed out Mater’s voices. The Prima imbued within the Sanctums of Shelter, that ran all along the Vallum of Light, spread before him, glorious, recognizable. Except for sela, he could take a hold of them all. Even the shade seemed more malleable.

  The entire world looked like a beautiful mosaic, including these two essential essences. They congregated around the room, some of them in healthy blacks and vibrant grays that were almost silver. Others were sickly, infected with some of the same corruption that had become common since the ruined city of Aldazhar. They seeped into everyone.

  A resonance to match the Sanctum’s essences thumped like a heartbeat behind him. Not from one source, but two.

  Ancel turned to Ryne, ignoring everyone else for the moment. Under the influences of his Tenets, he could pick out the deficiencies in Ryne’s aura. Those missing pieces of Mater were evident in Mother’s aura, many as incredibly potent as they were infectious. By the grim expressions on the original Eztezians, they knew what was happening. Celina and Anton were too caught with Mother’s condition to realize or care.

  “What must I do to become shade’s Materwarden?” he asked.

  “The same as always, take it from an Eztezian or from the netherling that holds it,” Ryne said, voice flat.

  “I dreaded you would say that.”

  Ryne’s shoulders slumped, and he continued in the same dead monotone. “It is the way of things.”

  “I was hoping I was wrong.” Ancel’s heart hurt, the anguish of what he needed to do near overwhelming. It threatened to crush him. “Charra.” The connection between him and the netherling bloomed. Charra’s knowledge became his, the Sanctum’s secrets were laid bare, his mother’s link to his pet now seeming so obvious he wondered how he’d missed it.

  Chitin-covered tentacles shot out from Charra at the doorway. They wrapped around Anton, Celina, and
Stefan before either of them could react, and dragged the three of them back to Charra.

  Screaming, Celina Forged. Or at least she tried. Nothing happened. Anton was staring in shock. Stefan’s face contorted with grief. He hadn’t attempted any defense or attack. In that moment, Ancel realized his father also knew what was to come.

  Hands trembling, he turned to his mother. Shade and sela poured from her, but more so the latter. He knew beyond a doubt what he had only suspected before. As much as she was connected to the light that extended life through her Gift to Forge sela, she was also connected to the shade and the taking of life, the corruption that had become prevalent.

  She smiled up at him. “It’s alright, son. I was always to be the one. The Nine’s master hoped to trap all of you, kill you here through me, or at the very least, see that I tainted you. But Entopi was too certain of Ryne’s skill. He never suspected Ryne could be defeated or that he possessed the strength to still call forth his sentient without being a Materwarden.”

  Ancel began to cry.

  “Say the words,” she urged, voice tender.

  “Sh-Sh-Shade,” he began and stopped, tears flowing in earnest. Yet he didn’t attempt to stem the tide. This was a part of shade’s strength: hate, fear, grief.

  “What you need cannot be given, or else I would willingly surrender it to you. It must be taken,” Mother said, smiling, eyes alive despite her condition.

  He tried for the words again, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t allow himself to say them. They stuck in his throat, added to the lump of fear crawling there.

  “Why do you exist?”

  The answer came without thought, uttered in a hoarse whisper. “To help the helpless. To defend. To build. To destroy. To judge.” They bolstered him, added the certainty he lacked, the strength, the determination. Gaze locked on Mother’s eyes, he said, “Shade to balance light. Mercy to Gift death. Death to those found wanting.” He hadn’t realized he’d drawn his sword until it slid across her throat, its Etchings aglow.

  He felt empty. Cold. A shell. Nothing was left. He barely noticed the smell of burning hair and flesh, nor did its heat touch him. In his mind he replayed the images of Mother during the last meal she’d cooked before he left for Randane, when life still seemed normal. It felt like ages ago, but he cherished the beauty of her face. That was how he would remember her.