She meant the Cinderveil, the impassable storm that blocked access to the Blasts for all but a couple months a year. With all the talk of Praeters, she couldn’t mean anything else. If its cycle held, the last such parting was months previous during the spring equinox.
Ryle’s mind leapt through the math. Lastrahn had vanished after Helador, held during the last fall equinox. Even if he had returned this past spring, that meant Lastrahn had spent half a year out there. There wouldn’t have been another break in the storm since then.
He couldn’t fathom it, but if anyone could survive for so long beyond the frontier, it was Lastrahn. He’d ridden in the west for years, had travelled deep into the Blasts on more than one occasion, but six-months with the Praeters? The idea made Ryle’s spine crawl.
“Recent enough,” Lastrahn said. “The hills were still sparkling behind me when the winds began to wail.” He waved a hand dismissively. “But let me get to my story. So on this trip, as on any journey, I saw many things. Most of them ordinary, but some unique, perhaps even surprising.”
“You? Surprised? I can’t imagine such a thing,” Judith said.
“The world is a wide place. You never know what you’ll see if you just look up.” He glanced at Ryle. His eyes were . . . what? Weighing? Judging? Before Ryle could decipher the look, Lastrahn spoke again. “Things like Vastroth flying west.”
Ryle’s pulse quickened, and it took every ounce of his training to keep from choking to death on a bite of cake. He washed it down with a sip of tea without uttering the slightest cough.
Lastrahn didn’t notice, he was watching Judith again.
Her lips twisted. “So the Son of Winter rides the skies once more.” Her tone almost managed surprise, but came up a bit short to Ryle’s ears. As if she already knew of this revelation. “No one has seen him in a year. Not since Helador.”
A frontier paradise, once fabled for its views, for its rugged remoteness at the edge of the Blasts, for the mystery of the ancient tower high above. Now reduced to a tragedy or a slaughter depending on who you asked. The first gathering of its kind between Eastern, Western, and Praeter delegates. With Vastroth playing host. A chance for peace until—
Lastrahn drew a sharp, choking breath. Ryle’s gut clenched. He knew they shouldn’t have drunk her brew!
Judith leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes looked like they might burn a hole through Lastrahn’s skull. Beside him, his master stopped breathing. That look shattered Ryle’s thoughts. It was Judith. Somehow she was doing this. Fear at the sudden thought of being left alone with her shot needles through his arms.
He opened his mouth, if he could get Lastrahn’s attention maybe he could break her hold on him, but her eyes turned on him. Her face was white granite. Her eyes obsidian. A pressure like a battering ram slammed into Ryle’s brain.
“You want to speak, little aide? Then speak to me.” Her voice hissed in his ears as if she sat beside him. Ryle’s thoughts tumbled chaotic. “Who are you?” she asked, and he realized her lips weren’t moving. “Why is there so much blood on the hands of one so young?”
The pressure slipped inside his skull and slid across his brain like a dry tongue. Ryle felt sick, like he was falling while sitting down.
“I’m . . .” His limbs hung heavy, severed from his control; his mind lost its grip a finger’s width at a time. He had to shake her off, to clear his mind.
Nothing penetrates the center. Nothing but the self. The Professor’s words whispered from the past, but they got through. He drifted, tumbling, grasping for his training. And there it was. He slipped into his kenten. Pain and fear fell away. The room shone crystal clear. Judith’s hard face. Her white knuckled grip on her teacup. The tendons stood out on either side of her ivory neck.
Her voice faded to a dim babble, as if from behind glass, but still it pressed, trying to get inside. Ryle’s arms remained numb, useless, but for the moment, he was in control of his mind.
“Sir!” Ryle shouted. He hoped it would be enough, she surely wouldn’t give him another shot.
Lastrahn cleared his throat, and the air cracked as Judith’s presence jerked away, viper quick. The pressure vanished. She sipped her tea and smiled.
Lastrahn blinked, and his voice was rough when he spoke. “It’s true. No, not seen in a year.”
Judith sat her cup back in its saucer as if nothing had happened.
What had happened? In Ryle’s center, his thoughts came slow. The room felt unreal. His mind fragile.
“And you want to know why he’s heading west,” she said. Her words fell in soft sighs, stroking, soothing.
Lastrahn blinked again, and light flickered back into his eyes. “No.” His voice was hard again.
Ryle hung on for another moment, until he was sure Lastrahn had recovered, then let his center go. An ache slammed down on his temples as sensations rushed back in. The sharp edges of the china against his fingers, that sweet almost sticky scent in the air, the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. He focused through the pain, tried to keep track of what was happening in the room.
“Then you already know why he flies west across less than hospitable lands?” she asked.
“Who the hell cares,” Lastrahn snapped. “The Praeters can deal with whatever damn problems they bring down on their own ash sucking heads.”
Judith’s shoulders stiffened. Ryle’s spine did the same.
“Then why are you here, Mr. Lastrahn?”
The champion smoothed the front of his coat. “I was thinking about a certain tower in the west. And how vulnerable it is while its master is away.” It was Lastrahn’s turn to smile. Judith did not. “I’m thinking about a way inside Gearspire,” he said with even precision.
Lastrahn’s statement hung in the air. Ryle felt myths and legends piling up around the champion like corpses.
Gearspire. Vastroth’s legendary tower overlooking Helador in the west. Some had thought protecting the city. Before it died at Vastroth’s hands.
Judith’s laugh rang shrill and harsh in the small room. “Mr. Lastrahn. Oh my, you are a wild one. Funny too.”
Lastrahn didn’t move a muscle. Ryle didn’t see even a hint of a joke in his face.
Oh, muck. Had the Directorate put Lastrahn up to this? Were they finally striking back for the deaths Vastroth caused at Helador? And what in the hex did any of this have to do with Kilgren?
Judith blinked, and looked at Lastrahn again. Closer somehow. Her eyes narrowed. She tapped her teacup with one red lacquered nail. “My, oh my, you are serious.” She took a long breath. “Do you know what you are asking, Mr. Lastrahn? Really know?”
“Tell me what you see,” Lastrahn said.
Her dark eyes darted back and forth, as if peering inside him. “Do you think this is the time? Your opening? Are you ready to make your move, champion?”
Ryle felt invisible threads of unknown history being plucked in the air around him. Threads that ran west. What was she asking?
Lastrahn didn’t answer.
Judith set her teacup down on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “Very well. State your request.”
Lastrahn drew a slow breath, but instead of answering, he turned and locked eyes with Ryle. His look was . . . warning? Questioning? Ryle felt more lost than ever, but he clenched his jaw and didn’t let his eyes waver. Lastrahn gave the slightest nod, turned back to the crone. That was when the world stopped. “I want to know how Kilgren and his men got inside Gearspire.”
The champion might’ve said more, but Ryle didn’t hear a word of it. His mind had jerked to a rough halt.
Ryle had suspected his father disappeared at Helador. Maybe dead, maybe vanished. But not this. Never this. It was like saying his father had gained the high seat of the Directorate or that he was now a Praeter.
No one aside from Vastroth had ever entered Gearspire. Only he had unlocked the ancient tower’s secrets. Its defenses were legendary. Kraczaw, widely regarded as one of the best generals in the w
est, had besieged the place with a thousand men after Helador. He returned with nothing to show for it but wagons piled high with the dead.
Ryle felt sick, dizzy, and hot. What the hex had his father done?
“And in exchange for such information?” Judith asked.
Lastrahn dusted the sugar from his fingers and reached into his coat pocket. The fist-sized, cloth-wrapped package he set on the table sounded heavy.
Judith considered it for a long moment. “Why would you think I have this information? It’s not my forte.”
“I thought you knew everything,” Lastrahn said.
A joke? A challenge? Ryle couldn’t tell.
“I want to inspect it first.”
Lastrahn slid the shape across the table.
As she unwrapped it, a familiar object came into view, and Lastrahn’s mood in Shelling gained some justification. If Vastroth, Praeters, and his father were involved, perhaps the deal he’d made with Tillence’s guards was worth it.
A skull lay within the cloth, but, until earlier that morning, unlike any Ryle had ever seen. It looked human, except smaller, and the bare bone gleamed like metal. A tangle of thick black wires uncoiled from the rough stub of its neck. Something like midnight colored gems filled the eye sockets. The left one cracked.
Judith pursed her lips then rewrapped it. “Interesting, Mr. Lastrahn. You are still full of surprises.”
He wasn’t the only one. Ryle’s temples throbbed at the thought of the pressure she’d unleashed.
She tapped the package with one pale finger, then nodded. “Very well, you shall have your request, all of the information I have on any doors into that tower in the west.”
“And the crew,” Lastrahn said.
Judith’s eyes pinched a fraction. “Of course.”
Tension slipped from Lastrahn’s face as he nodded and sat back on the couch. Ryle wished he felt the same. A vice crushed his chest. Every breath required effort.
Judith retrieved her cup and saucer, and took a sip before speaking. “Gearspire’s construction is a secret lost to an age before the Rending. The materials, purpose, and methods used are all hidden behind that impenetrable curtain. Today, only a single man has unlocked its design. Every mechanism, structure, lock, and key are now kept in Vastroth’s mind alone.”
Lastrahn frowned. Ryle felt his brow matching his.
Judith took another sip of tea. “In short, Mr. Lastrahn, I do not know where any doors lie. Only those within possess this secret.”
Lastrahn started forward in his seat, eyes burning. Ryle’s fist clenched.
Judith held up a forestalling hand. “I said I would provide you with all the information I had. If you will let me continue, I think you will find that what I do know may be of value to you.”
The muscles in Lastrahn’s jaw bunched, but after a heartbeat, he sat back.
Judith smoothed her skirt. “As you said, there was one successful attempt.” The words dragged Ryle along. He’d never heard a whisper of this and doubted few others had either. “While the gathering at Helador ended in disaster, a team of very determined, perhaps desperate men led by Kilgren used it as a . . . diversion, to slip inside.”
That was a hex of a “diversion.” Hundreds killed, nearly as many missing. And a war sparked to life in the aftermath. Only a madman would use something like that as an advantage. But they were talking about Kilgren. It was exactly the sort of plot his fevered mind would hatch.
“How they located an entrance and then gained entry, I cannot say. The ensuing chaos of that time and place consumed such details. Of this I believe you are familiar.” She smiled before continuing. “I can tell you they used a key to open the door they found. A very few witnesses observed such an object in their possession before Kilgren’s team disappeared.”
She paused. Lastrahn’s face said he’d known this much already. The champion had been at Helador. Perhaps he’d seen this himself. Judith glanced once more to the package before continuing.
“Whatever they found inside was more than they bargained for. When the master of the tower was done with them, a single member of the intruding party remained.”
Even if she was talking about his father, Ryle couldn’t help shivering.
Judith looked at him. Her eyes were cold, and the air around Ryle with it. “Indeed.”
“When he finished with the survivor, Vastroth did not kill him. No, he gave the survivor to a rival. Perhaps it was a peace offering, rumor has it Kilgren’s team had successfully struck this adversary. Or perhaps it was a warning, after all someone had assisted these men in their attempt.
“In any case, this rival was so pleased, or frightened, that some kind of truce has existed between him and Vastroth ever since.”
Judith sipped her tea again while Lastrahn looked on, his jaw set, eyes hard. Ryle felt like a steel bear trap sat beside him. He kept still lest it go off.
“The story however does not end there. Vastroth’s rival did not kill the man. That would serve no purpose. Instead he kept him alive, taking out his frustrations on him over the months since. The last I heard, this prisoner is still alive. As much as anyone could be after such treatment.”
Judith paused for another sip. Lastrahn’s face was eager, desperate.
Ryle felt his face trying to twist between horror and sick excitement. Was this his answer?
Judith’s china rattled as she sat the cup back in the saucer. Her eyes were shadowed, as if sunken. Her expression shook Ryle; she was scared. Whoever could frighten this woman could wipe him from the map without a second thought.
Vastroth, Kilgren, Gearspire, Praeters. The twisted, thrilling sickness in Ryle’s guts told him Lastrahn really was marching them into this nightmare.
Judith licked her lips. Her tongue was pale, almost white.
Ryle forced the nausea down, and waited to hear what she would say next. This is what he wanted. What he needed to hear.
“The name of this survivor and now prisoner, is unknown to me, but the last I heard Hartvau holds him in some dark hole beneath Del’atre. Look for him there if you plan to continue down this path.”
Disappointment crashed over Ryle. He was so close but still didn’t have an answer! His father might be locked up in Del’atre, or he might be dead inside an unassailable tower on the frontier. Neither place was near at hand or easily accessible.
Blast Kilgren! Leave it to him to not even die in a convenient place.
To top it off now this Hartvau was involved. If he was Vastroth’s equal, he was not someone to take lightly. Ryle sensed no one ahead would fall into that category. Not in Del’atre. The ancient gateway to the frontier was said to be home to every great power west of the Directorate’s seat in the Seven Cities’ capital of Cartere.
Not that it mattered. If there was a chance his father waited at the end of the road, Ryle would sure as hex travel it no matter where it led. Possibly dead. Possibly a prisoner, didn’t cut it. Ryle had to know. He wouldn’t trust anything less than his own eyes. Not with Kilgren.
“Thank you, Madame,” Lastrahn said, “But I would ask one further thing.”
Her eyes went hard. The soft edges faded from her features like they’d never existed. “Ask.”
“If this man lives he won’t be whole. Not after those two finished with him,” Lastrahn said.
“Perhaps. Hartvau, is known for his heavy hand,” Judith said.
“He’ll need assistance if I’m to learn anything.”
She smirked. The malice in that look curled the hairs on the back of Ryle’s neck into fetal positions.
“I’m surprised at you, Sir Champion.”
“As you said, it’s been a long time.” Lastrahn’s voice was as rough as I’d ever heard it.
“Do you have something in mind?” she asked.
“A new voice might do the job.”
Judith paused. Her eyes said she was considering what he’d said. Something Ryle had missed. “Things have truly changed for Lastrahn to
suggest that. Perhaps Vastroth was right, and there are no more easy answers.” Her voice was surprisingly distant, and the tone, hinting at personal knowledge of such a powerful figure, struck Ryle in the chest. There was more going on here. So much more he didn’t understand. He wasn’t a new player to this game, he was yet a bystander.
For a heartbeat Lastrahn’s face went stiff. As if life itself had fled his features and left behind a wooden mask. Threads from the past sang around Ryle, but their tune was reserved for the champion and the crone. Both sat unmoving for a long moment.
When Lastrahn spoke his voice crackled. “Tell me if that is enough.” He jerked his head toward the skull on the table.
Her eyes sharpened and her tone returned. “For this? I think not.”
“A deposit then. I’ll bring you something interesting when I come back.”
“If you come back,” she said.
Lastrahn didn’t reply. She frowned, but then nodded. “Something particular. I’ll give you a drawing along with what you need.” She brushed her hands across her skirt, and stood.
“Agreed,” Lastrahn said, and came to his feet.
Judith walked to a door in the corner of the room Ryle hadn’t seen. Her steps echoed off the wooden floor. She paused with her hand on the door knob. “If she’s your goal, you have little time,” Judith said.
She?
“Until Vastroth returns with the Harvest Moon,” Lastrahn said.
Judith glanced back over her shoulder. “You’re really going back.”
Lastrahn’s voice was controlled, but rough. “I have to.”
The door opened with a soft creak, and then clicked shut as Judith disappeared through it.
Ryle had missed something else. Something important.
“Aide, see to the horses. I’ll be out shortly.”
Ryle left the house as fast as he could manage. His legs ached and his skull pounded with every step. He thought an hour, perhaps two, had passed inside, but the setting sun blazed across his face as he stepped onto the porch. They’d spent half a day locked in that room. With her. Fresh air had rarely tasted so sweet. He took huge lungfuls of it, and some of the pain in his skull slid away.
Gearspire: Advent Page 10