And then the last of them was through. Caeden dropped to his knees, exhausted beyond measure.
He stared through the portal at the bodies. A hundred, perhaps? A hundred left of a hundred million? He wept, wept as he had not since after he had created the Plains. None of the Darecians were moving, but he knew that he couldn’t check on them. His touch, his very presence might destroy them.
He raised Licanius and sliced through the scaffolding.
The Gate vanished in an instant, Res Kartha blinking out of existence, leaving Caeden on his knees in the hall, alone. The Darecians’ screams still seemed to echo from the walls, despite the silence.
Caeden sat there for what felt like hours, forcing a kan shield up against the draining effects of the Jha’vett. Eventually his Reserve refilled, slowly restoring energy to his dead limbs. He stood, then walked stiffly over to the simple stone structure that stood between the gray columns. A table made of a solid block of white stone, a few symbols inscribed on its surface. The vanity of the Darecians, there. A boast of how it would be a tool of vengeance.
The Jha’vett glowed as he approached it.
He closed his eyes and pushed through kan, searching for the scaffolding, the machinery underlying the device.
He nearly lost his grip on kan, so great was his shock.
The scaffolding was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Had even Andrael ever envisaged such a thing? Layers upon layers of thin kan strands, interacting with each other to form something of unimaginable complexity. A web of hard and soft kan, bends and flows to direct Essence, endpoints structured in such a manner that he could only theorize as to their purpose. He looked harder, and shook his head in wonder. Impossibly thin strands of Essence, almost unnoticeable, ran between the ones that he had initially seen.
He let his gaze wander. The machinery wasn’t just in the stone block. It ran deep beneath the hall. It ran through the columns, in the air between. It stretched downward farther than he could see, for what looked like miles underground.
Two hundred years of work, built atop two thousand years of knowledge and unlike anything even the Venerate had seen. Caeden had helped Andrael as he had deconstructed the Ironsails, had been with him as he’d unlocked the secrets of the Cyrarium and the workings of the Gates—and yet, none of that came close to this. This was artistry and science and the most incredible brilliance the world had ever known.
And it had all been turned against him.
And soon it would not matter.
He closed his eyes, locating the endpoint that initiated the flow from the Cyrarium. That, at least, was familiar.
He paused.
He picked up one of the torcs that lay on the ground, the ones that had re-formed once their wearers had dissolved. At first glance it was a Vessel for creating a basic ilshara, a shield like the ones the Darecians had to wear around a Cyrarium. But this was … different. It was pure kan, harder, more complete. The wearer would be invulnerable to any sort of draining, but would be unable to actually use Essence, too.
He studied it for a while longer, but eventually concluded that the torcs alone were not responsible for what had happened. There had to have been an unexpected clash, a reaction to the wildly complicated kan running through the room, and to the fact that the wearers had all been High Darecians—had all had Reserves. Some sort of unanticipated feedback from the kan running through the city, probably, now that he thought about it. He would have to remove these devices, lest another unsuspecting soul attempt to put one on within Deilannis’s boundaries.
But he understood now. The Darecians knew what El had told him: that only those able to completely protect themselves from the pull of kan in the Darklands would be able to use the Jha’vett. As one of the Venerate, he could do it on instinct. The Darecians, though, needed something to do the protecting for them.
They had miscalculated, probably in the rush to complete the process before he arrived.
It had destroyed them.
Caeden shook off the thought, focusing again on the Jha’vett. He knew that he should have trusted El, stayed the course, participated in the northern landings rather than giving in to his impatience and going on ahead … but what was done was done and there was no telling when, or even if, he would have another chance at this. Here in front of him, finally, was an opportunity to break fate itself. To undo all that he had done, to free El from time and go back to begin again in a world of limitless possibilities.
A world in which Elliavia had never died.
He gazed for a few long, contemplative moments at the Initiation endpoint.
He triggered it.
He watched as Essence began to stream through the room, flowing along lines of kan, twisting and turning, burning bright in some areas as power began to congregate, congeal and form something new. Black lines turned to gold, to red, to bright blue as phases began to activate. The entire room was filled with a spider’s web of minute, intricate designs in a spectrum of glowing colors. It was beautiful.
Too late, he saw where his drilling into the Cyrarium had caused damage to the scaffolding.
Essence began to leak into the air, quickly sucked back down into the Cyrarium, but the damage was done. Lines of kan remained dark. To his horror, he realized that several smaller endpoints were missing. He’d cut right through them, not even seeing them due to their size. And the Gate had shorn through more. His use of Licanius more still.
There was a whining sound, the sound of power building and building but not going anywhere. Endpoints began to crack as Essence overloaded them.
Caeden flicked the Initiation endpoint, but it did nothing. This was not a process that was meant to be stopped.
He ran.
He ran past the columns, cursing his stupidity, his weakness, his pity. He ran down the long corridor, dazed and furious and horrified, his heart breaking at being so close and yet not achieving his goal.
Behind him, a mighty sound like a thousand buildings crashing to the ground. An explosion of light, throwing him forward, slamming him into a wall.
He knew no more.
Chapter 36
Davian rode alongside Ishelle, the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine beating down on his back.
“We should probably make camp soon,” he observed quietly, stretching as he looked around. The road here was narrow, little used, though it showed signs of having been recently cleared. This forest was different from those he’d traveled through before. The foliage appeared to be struggling to grow despite the humidity; the lush colors he’d seen elsewhere were absent, few trees displaying many leaves and undergrowth showing as much brown as green.
Ishelle snorted, giving him a mildly irritated look. “We’re almost there. I can keep going, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
“No. No, it’s …” Davian sighed. “Fine. If you’re sure.”
Ishelle gave a satisfied nod. “It’s been a week. There’s no need to keep worrying about me. I don’t want to hold us back.”
Davian just nodded again, not saying anything. Ishelle did look better; her sickly, pallid hue had faded over the past few days and she sat up straight in her saddle, showing no evidence of damage or even stiffness from the spears that had pierced her body.
Still, he wasn’t entirely sure that she had recovered—at least not mentally. Her behavior since the attack had been sharply at odds with her usual outgoing personality; more often than not she seemed lost in her own thoughts, focused elsewhere, needing to have her name mentioned three or four times before she even realized that someone was talking to her. She’d been sober, too, far more quiet than he’d ever seen her.
But that was to be expected, he supposed. He could relate in a small way. He’d been younger, admittedly, but it had taken him weeks to start feeling even close to normal again after he’d been attacked in Caladel.
“As long as you’re sure,” he said eventually, dropping the subject. They’d talked about it enough over the past week anywa
y, trying to understand what had happened. What, exactly, had attacked them, and then why the sha’teth had seemingly saved them from it. He suspected that Ishelle, as well as Erran and Fessi, remained dubious on that last point—but regardless of whether they believed him, there weren’t many new conclusions to draw from the incident. The only certainty arising from it was that they needed to be constantly on their guard now.
They rode in silence for a minute, Erran and Fessi chatting quietly between themselves a little way ahead.
Eventually, Ishelle shifted in her saddle. “Do you believe we change the future?” she asked suddenly.
Davian frowned, silent for a moment as he considered the strange question. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think we’re … making a difference?” Ishelle stared straight ahead grimly, her brow furrowed. “All of this. All of this effort that we’re going through. The pain. If it’s all inevitable anyway …”
Davian thought for a moment, then inclined his head.
“I talked about this once with Malshash—about inevitability. He said that our actions matter, and it was simply that what will happen, has already happened. We shape the future. It’s just that how we shape it—the results of our efforts, our decisions—has already been determined.”
Ishelle frowned for a few moments, then nodded slowly. “Like the story of Aphelas.”
Davian looked at her questioningly; he hadn’t heard the name before.
Ishelle saw his expression and shrugged. “Just something that Driscin told me once, to illustrate a similar point. Aphelas served as Augur to King Leorin’s army. One day, he had a vision that he would be hanged for treason. In a panic, he fled. Because he fled, he was hanged for treason.”
Davian nodded. “Exactly. It shows the future is affected by us … because us seeing it can actively shape it,” he said slowly. “If Aphelas hadn’t Seen that he was going to be hanged, he would never have been hanged.” He fell silent again, wondering why Ishelle had brought it up.
Then he paled.
“Fates,” he whispered. “Did you know?”
Ishelle said nothing, the silence a confirmation.
Davian shook his head, trying to process the information. “Why … why didn’t you say anything?” he asked gently. “We could have—”
“Could have what, Davian?” Ishelle snapped, the tension suddenly back. She glared at him. “Could have gone a different route? Not headed for the Boundary? I didn’t know the specifics of where and when. Would you three have not let me out of your sights?” She leaned forward, not looking at him. “What if you had done something to try and stop it, slowing us down, and then it didn’t happen until later? What if what you did to stop it caused it to happen? How would you feel then?” Her voice was quiet, but there was heat in it. “I see you struggling as it is. I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t handle feeling responsible for this very well.”
Davian flinched at that, not responding for a while. In some ways, he did feel responsible; his thoughtlessness had sent Ishelle into the forest in the first place. He didn’t say that, though.
“You’re right,” he conceded eventually. “Sorry.” He hesitated. “We should still be sharing these visions, though. I know it’s hard, but you don’t have to carry that burden by yourself. And even if we accept that these things will happen, we can still fight for what we don’t know.”
Ishelle thought, then sighed and gave him a reluctant nod.
“Just don’t take that advice too literally, Dav, else you’ll never have a spare moment,” she said absently.
Davian stared at her, then chuckled. It was probably the first real quip he’d heard from Ishelle in the past week.
Ishelle gave a small smile back and looked like she was about to say more, but ahead Erran suddenly pulled up short, glancing back at them excitedly. Davian’s gaze traveled farther along, spotting what Erran had in the steadily deepening gloom of dusk.
The road ahead—which had been directing them up an incline for some time now—widened out until it abruptly ended in a high gray wall. There was a lone gate visible, its iron showing signs of rust but evidently still functional. It was shut, the two uniformed men standing outside watching them suspiciously as they approached.
“One of the old outposts,” said Erran, his tone relief and eagerness in equal measure.
Davian nodded his acknowledgment, urging his horse forward alongside the others.
They had reached the Boundary.
Davian exchanged a glance with Erran as they were ushered through the gates.
“Not what I was expecting,” murmured Erran, taking in their surroundings as they walked along moss-covered cobblestone.
“It’s a fates-cursed ruin,” muttered Fessi.
Davian wasn’t sure that he could disagree. Up close, the gray walls were less than impressive; time had clearly taken a toll on the masonry, with cracks evident and entire sections weathered away toward the top. From inside the gate, Davian could see that the surrounding forest had actually begun to encroach, with climbing vines covering some sections of the wall, and branches poking over the crumbling edges of others.
“Not exactly overflowing with people, either,” observed Ishelle, eyeing the barren parapets.
Davian nodded concernedly. After Ilin Illan and the Shields, he’d expected these outposts to be bustling with Gifted and soldiers, men readying defenses and preparing for the worst. Everyone here looked alert enough, but there were too few to have any impact if the Boundary really did fail. Did Wirr know that it was like this? Why had he and the Tols not sent people flooding northward?
They passed through two more gates—each set into walls as tall and as crumbling as the outer one—before finally coming to a large central keep, a structure with multiple staggered platforms that allowed for viewing out over the southern walls and, presumably at the higher levels, north toward the Boundary. There had evidently been at least some work done to strengthen the fortifications here; they looked in better condition than those back the way they’d come, if not by much.
They were ushered inside, where a portly man in a captain’s uniform looked up from the table as they entered.
“Welcome,” he said with a nod, polite enough without being ingratiating. He frowned slightly as scrutinized the group, evidently not seeing what he was expecting. “Where is the Elder from Tol Shen accompanying you?”
“There were some issues at Tol Shen,” said Davian, meeting the man’s gaze. “Elder Throll was unable to make the journey, but he did give us this.” He handed across the slip of paper that Driscin had given them. “I’m Davian,” he added belatedly.
There was silence for a few seconds as the captain scanned the document, then reluctantly handed it back. “Muran,” he replied with a small frown. “I’m in charge of this outpost, as well as the ones directly east and west.” He hesitated. “I don’t mean to appear rude, but this document’s not exactly unforgeable. I don’t know why you’d want to pretend that you were Augurs, but—”
Fessi appeared behind the middle-aged man, tapping him on the shoulder. Muran started, eyes widening when he turned to see who it was.
“Ah.” The captain took a breath. “Right you are.”
Davian gave him a slight nod, relieved to see that Muran was not going to be difficult. He hadn’t expected it—the purpose of the Augur Amnesty was hardly a secret—but people’s reactions were never a sure thing. “How bad has it been here?” he asked quietly.
Muran grunted. “The good news is that the Boundary hasn’t completely collapsed. The bad news is … pretty much everything else.” He gestured around them. “You’ve seen the state of what’s here—that’s not exactly unique. There’s one of these keeps every few miles, and they’re all the same. Would have been very good defenses a thousand years ago. Probably still could be, if we had the numbers to repair them. Or at least properly man them.” He scratched his head. “Fates take me if I know what those fools in the Assembly are doin
g. Or the Tols, for that matter. After what I’ve seen up here—after the reports I’ve sent to every fates-cursed official that I can think of—we should be getting flooded with soldiers and Gifted. Athian and Shen, especially, should be uprooting themselves and relocating here, but apparently the Councils are convinced that you lot will take care of things before it’s too late.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Sorry if that’s news to you,” he added belatedly.
Davian remained silent for a few moments, heart sinking. This was worse than he’d expected; he’d assumed that the Assembly would be treating the northern border with more respect after the Blind attack.
“You said there were outposts every few miles?” It was Erran, sounding dubious. “Would those defenses even matter if the Boundary actually fell?” He gestured outside at the encroaching darkness. “I mean, does being here even help as a lookout station? What if there are enemies getting through at night?”
Muran grunted. “You don’t know much about the area, I take it.”
Ishelle shook her head. “Nobody we’ve spoken to has actually been here.”
Muran nodded and rose tiredly, beckoning for them to follow.
“According to the Gifted that Tol Athian actually bothered to send, these outposts were built in the hundred or so years after the Boundary was created,” Muran said as they climbed the wide staircase that wound its way up the center of the keep. “The golden age of the Gifted might have been coming to an end, but fates take me if they didn’t know what they were doing.”
They reached the top of the staircase, emerging onto what was the roof of the keep.
Davian gaped.
Though the southern-facing side of the outpost had only a gradual incline, the northern side simply … dropped away. They were at the highest point for miles, and Davian swallowed as he understood now why the outposts had been placed so far apart.
The sheer cliff wasn’t just at the edge of the outpost, but ran in an east-west line as far as the eye could see. The first hints of moonlight reflected dully off its smooth face where it curled around to the west, and Davian thought that the incline was actually inverted, jutting out at the top—surely impossible to scale. In front of them, from the outpost’s north-facing gate, he could see a path leading downward, but it was thin enough to allow for only single-file traversal.
An Echo of Things to Come Page 55