“Then what?” I asked, though I had trepidation in doing so.
“Choice,” he whispered. He stared at me for a long moment, as if willing me to understand. I thought I saw something in his eyes, that day. A sadness at what he had done. A wish for someone to understand him.
But then he shook his head and stood, glaring at me. “You cannot comprehend the things happening here,” he told me. “You were a king—neither good nor bad, corrupt nor moral. But you wasted your power. Now I will use it for something more.”
The words hit true, and I felt shame at them. But still I refused to simply let him leave, my questions unanswered.
“What will you do with me?” I asked. “Execution?”
Serrin shook his head. “A waste,” he said, voice stern. “No. You will become as the others.”
He left without explaining further, not responding to my calls. It was not until the following day that I understood what he meant.
He came for me in the morning. I still remember the sun shining so brightly, the blue skies traitor to the moment. He paraded me out in front of the people, and I wept to see their faces.
For the Taint had spread. For every one person untouched, three wore the black veins.
I was taken to the Great Square, wherein many had gathered, purportedly at Serrin’s urgings. There was a stage set up above the crowd’s heads, and despite Serrin’s claims, I felt certain that this was to be my public execution.
When we arrived, though, Serrin had me stand in full view of everyone. There was no axman, no gallows. Instead, he produced a small black disc, thin, not much larger than a man’s thumbnail. He held it aloft, and its import was clearly lost on me, for the crowd groaned. Some shouted in protest, but they were quickly silenced.
That is my last memory of that morning. I am told that Serrin spoke for hours. I am told that I was moved from the Great Square back to the walls of the palace, where Serrin felt the large crowd would better be able to witness what happened to me. I have little choice but to believe what has been described to me, as I myself have no recollection of these events.
I awoke back in my cell, and though ostensibly nothing had changed, I knew that something was amiss. I was tired, unnaturally so. My lethargy could have been put down to the stressful events of the past days, but I knew that that was not the cause.
There was no mirror in my cell, but I had a basin for washing. My reflection in the water told me all that I needed to know.
It is a strange thing, to see your face the same and yet so markedly different. It is a hard thing to reconcile, and for some days my mind denied it. I forced myself to look at that reflection periodically, to remind myself both of what had happened and what it meant. Just as Mishaeil had suggested, the Taint was evidently not natural—though its purpose, at that point, I had not yet surmised. For while the lethargy was a discomfort, and the scarring of my face upsetting, I did not feel ill.
It was a week later that it was done to me, as it had already been done to so many.
I did not understand the purpose of the men entering my chamber at first; I thought, perhaps, that they were there to take me somewhere else. Even when a third man entered, holding physician’s equipment along with a sharp blade, I had no inkling of what was about to transpire.
They forced Sleeproot down my throat, of course. I suppose I can be grateful for that much.
When I awoke to the pain in my ankles, I did not understand. It was only by moving the covers aside and seeing the true horror—the two stumps where my feet should have been—that I understood.
I am not ashamed to admit that I wept then, more so than for the marks on my face.
I was soon moved from my lone cell and into a great hall, filled with those just like me. We were well cared for, as these things go. Our meals were delivered, our linen kept fresh. We were provided tomes to read, writing and drawing materials, music, games of chance. Anything to distract us.
At first I, along with many of those in the same facility, believed that we were the only ones. That Serrin had killed the others. Mishaeil, El bless her, was one of those left to me. It was she who told me of the true nature of the Taint, and thus postulated that Serrin would likely have facilities such as ours set up all over the city. Her quick mind is likely what attracted Serrin to her in the first place, and thus also likely what killed her.
Mishaeil was not, at first, amongst those who had the Taint. She was little more than a girl, and served as a nurse for those like me.
It was she who kept me informed of the goings-on outside. She told me about Wereth and his men, those who were ultimately to become the Shadowbreakers, and their resistance. It was Wereth who first deduced that the Taint was feeding Serrin’s power in a direct and measurable way. It was he who first realized that we had become nothing more than extra Reserves for the new lord of Silvithrin.
I still shudder at the memory of being told that for the first time, but though I wish it were not true, I am certain that it is. Wereth, according to Mishaeil, first uncovered the truth during an incursion against a group of Tainted loyal to Serrin. Serrin himself actively participated in defending the city in those early days, and was in the process of constructing a grand wall around it. When Wereth’s attack came, it killed over three hundred Tainted soldiers in a single blow. His spies reported that Serrin’s ability to lift the enormous stone sections of wall instantly became less, and he knew immediately of what had happened, if not the details. It was after this, of course, that Serrin chose to maim and lock away the Tainted in housing that allowed neither escape, nor the possibility of accidental deaths.
A week ago, Mishaeil brought word that Wereth himself was coming to this building to speak with me. Though I have no power anymore, I welcomed the thought, despite initially cautioning against the meeting, as his capture would surely mean an end to the resistance. Mishaeil was adamant that he had insisted, though, so I ultimately conceded.
Had Mishaeil not died that very night, I am uncertain that I would have agreed to Wereth’s proposition.
But when Serrin came for her, lust in his eyes, she refused to let him take her. Despite her struggles, despite the furious shouts of protest from myself and others, he came and dragged her away to a fate that I have no desire to imagine. I know that she did not talk—she was too strong for that. But when Serrin instructed her bloodied body to be displayed to us—to emphasize the perils of disobedience, no doubt—I vowed that I would do everything in my power to fight him.
So when Wereth slipped in to speak to me three nights later, I told him that he had my blessing to kill everyone.
He explained it all, though I could tell the mere thought tore him up inside. The object of power that Serrin had somehow obtained—the Siphon, he called it—tapped into a person’s store of Essence. Far more useful when applied to mages, whose stores were by far larger than regular people’s, but still effective on those like myself. The lethargy, even occasional fainting that we all experienced at various times was from Serrin draining our very life force to supplement his own.
Wereth thought that there may be a cure for the Taint, a way to reverse its effects—but he could not know until he had the Siphon itself. I was wary of this, knowing of his ability as a mage, and warned him of the temptation that possessing such an artifact would undoubtedly bring. He assured me that he would never use it, and that if it came to it, he would die before ever taking on that power for himself. I believed him.
But the reason he had come to me, risked so much, was that he needed my permission. For he had tried, many times, to obtain the Siphon through other means, both direct and indirect. All had failed, and the only path left to him now was one that was difficult to countenance.
The removal of those who gave Serrin his power. The deaths of the Tainted.
Sufficed to say, with Mishaeil’s screams still ringing in my ears, I granted him my permission. I included myself amongst those who were to die; I could not in all conscience condemn other innoc
ents to a fate that I was not myself willing to face.
Wereth has given me leave to write this record in my last hours, with my assurance that none in the service of Serrin will read it before it is time. No one checks on the things that we do here; it is well accepted that we are no threat, not in our current state. I shall place this account by my bed, and sleep. It will be retrieved by Wereth’s men after they have killed me and my companions in this place.
I find myself growing reflective as I finish this record of events. It is a strange feeling, to know one’s death approaches. A stranger feeling, too, to understand that it is necessary, in the service of something greater.
For Taria, who Wereth says is safe within his camp but does not know of his plans: I love you. Please read what I have been through, what we have all been through, and understand that this was necessary. You do not need to stay, to see this fight through to the end, though I know that you will feel such an obligation. I am gone now, and all that matters is your happiness.
I pray that you and our daughter are well. I pray that you live a long and happy life, regardless of what else happens this night. I pray that you forgive me for what I have authorized Wereth to do, and that your memories of me are always fond.
And so I leave this record, which I swear is full and true. If blame is to fall for Wereth’s actions, let it fall on me.
So says Javahan du Tel Vederan, True King of Silvithrin.
Asha put the book down, her hands shaking.
She moved across to a nearby mirror, looking at the black scars on her face and then touching them lightly, not saying anything for a long time.
“What did you find, Ashalia?” asked Laiman quietly.
Before Asha could respond, there was movement in the corner of her eye. She spun to see a vaguely familiar red-haired man standing in the doorway, eyes wide as he registered their presence.
“Who in fates are you?” he asked, a low panic to his tone.
Breshada moved before anyone else, striding toward the intruder.
Asha threw out her hand.
“Breshada! Wait!” She recognized the man. He looked more tired, haggard—but it was him.
The man who had saved them all at Ilin Illan. Davian’s friend.
“His name is Caeden,” she said quickly. “He’s on our side.”
Breshada stopped in front of Caeden as the young man watched her warily. Slowly, she shook her head.
“I know who he is,” she said. “His name is Tal’kamar.”
Breshada’s face began to writhe.
Asha choked back a gasp as the woman stumbled and then steadied herself against a nearby table while the bones in her face and body cracked and shifted, muscles contorting and stretching, skin ripping and reforming and changing color. To the side, Asha could hear Laiman gagging at the horrific sight.
It was over within seconds. Breshada’s hair was still black, but longer and not quite as dark. She was shorter, marginally slimmer. Her skin was olive rather than white, and her face now bore the black veins of a Shadow.
The Shadraehin looked across at Asha, giving her a slow smile.
“He is here to meet me,” she said softly.
Chapter 38
There was utter silence in the room for several seconds.
Asha just stood, frozen, trying to understand what was going on. To her left, Laiman had taken a stunned step backward.
“Nethgalla,” he murmured, horror in his tone.
The Shadraehin ignored him, smiling slightly at Asha’s expression. “I told you that we would meet again.”
“But …” Asha floundered as she processed what had happened, straining to put the pieces together. She knew the story of Nethgalla—everyone did—and Davian had told her of Malshash’s claims.
That made it no easier to accept the reality in front of her, though.
How long had Nethgalla been Breshada? And … had she been the Shadraehin all along, too, then? She shook her head, thoughts racing, making connections. Could Davian’s message to the Shadraehin have actually been to Nethgalla? And he’d been telling her where to find Caeden?
Only Caeden himself looked unsurprised by the display, watching with eyes hard and filled with … disgust? Rage? It was difficult to tell.
“This is between you and me, Nethgalla,” he said grimly. “These two have no part to play. Let them go.”
Nethgalla sighed. “No part to play? If you had your memories back, Tal, you would know that that is not true.”
To Asha’s side, Laiman shuffled nervously. Nethgalla glanced across at him and gestured; Laiman immediately, silently, crumpled to the ground. Asha quickly knelt beside him, relieved to see that he was at least still breathing.
“Having Thell Taranor to deal with too is more trouble than it is worth, though,” the black-veined woman added quietly.
Caeden hesitated, casting an uncertain glance at Asha and the now-unconscious Laiman. Asha felt her brow furrow as she numbly tried to understand what the shape-shifter was saying. She knew who Laiman really was, too?
Asha stood again, trembling, though her primary emotion was still confusion. “What have you done with the Shadows?” she asked, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Nethgalla smiled at her expression. “They are safe,” she assured Asha quietly. Her gaze traveled to the book that Asha was holding. “Safer than Serrin ever made them, and nowhere near as badly treated.”
Asha stared at her in disbelief. “You knew?”
In response, Nethgalla turned a little to the side, gesturing again. Essence exploded from her fingertips but it dissolved immediately, doing nothing.
And Asha fell to her knees.
She shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it. It was just like the light-headedness she’d experienced in Ilin Illan, and then again on the road when they had clashed with the Administrators.
Nethgalla was tapping into Asha’s Essence.
“But … you’re a Shadow,” she said dazedly.
“I have the scars of one,” Nethgalla corrected her calmly. “This is the form of a Shadow. It is far from the same thing.”
“Enough.” It was Caeden again, tension threaded through his voice. “Nethgalla, I’ve come here in good faith.”
“Good faith?” There was suddenly a dangerous edge to Nethgalla’s tone. “You may have forgotten the Crossroads, Tal, but I have not. You tortured me, just so that you could better understand the Darklands. You took my ability for ten years.” She shook her head, latent anger but also a hint of sadness in the motion. “Your good faith is not nearly enough anymore. I rather fear that you would take the opportunity to kill me, now, if it arose.”
“Then don’t trust me. Right now, I just need the Siphon.” Caeden’s gaze shifted and he suddenly looked uncomfortable. “And … I need to understand what it does. How to use it against the Lyth.”
Asha stumbled back to her feet as Nethgalla hesitated, then reached into her pocket and withdrew a transparent sphere, engraved with symbols and about the size of the palm of her hand.
“You only had to ask,” she said quietly. She walked two paces forward, placing it on the table between her and Caeden before moving back again. “It’s yours.”
Caeden frowned at her, evidently suspicious of how easily Nethgalla had relinquished the Vessel, before walking over and picking it up. Then he produced an object from his own pocket, holding it up to the sphere.
He flinched as the two were sucked together, snapping perfectly into place.
“What does it do?” he asked quietly after a few startled seconds.
“She can tell you,” said Nethgalla, nodding to Asha, who had been watching with a growing sense of horror.
The Siphon. The device that she’d just been reading about.
“You can’t use it,” she said suddenly.
Caeden frowned over at her. “Why not?”
“Because it’s connected to all of the Shadows.” Asha’s gaze didn’t leave Nethgalla’s eyes, and
she saw that she was right. “It … draws power from them. From us.” Her heart skipped a beat. Could destroying the Vessel free the Shadows, perhaps? “And right now, it gives that power to her.”
Caeden paled as he understood, then glared at Nethgalla. “How could this possibly fulfill Andrael’s bargain?”
Nethgalla shrugged. “With the companion Vessel that you just attached, you can bind the Lyth exactly as the Shadows have been bound. They will become external Reserves—and by their nature, Reserves are protected from outside interference. They will be unable to use their powers, but they will be free to leave Res Kartha.” She looked at him steadily. “It is the perfect solution. It is the only solution.”
“A solution which would hand their power to you,” said Caeden softly. “This cannot have been what I intended.”
“I don’t think that you expected me to be quite so involved,” conceded Nethgalla, expression smug. “But the core of the plan remains. I simply took it further. Mitigated some of the risks.” She shook her head at his expression. “Don’t look so dismayed, Tal. I’m on your side.”
Caeden frowned, and there was a long moment as he digested what Nethgalla had said.
“What do you mean, ‘mitigated risks’?” he asked eventually, a note of trepidation in his tone.
“Specifically? The last generation of Augurs.” Nethgalla rolled her eyes at Caeden and Asha’s blank stares. “Their presence has always made the ilshara vulnerable, but perhaps fifty years ago, they started experimenting with things that you had convinced their forebears to leave alone centuries ago. They were taking more kan from the rift than was safe, threatening the operation of the Tributaries. I don’t know whether that was a machination of the other Venerate, or if the timing was merely coincidental—but in either case, you were still stuck in Talan Gol. You weren’t in any position to stop them.”
“So you just … killed them?” asked Caeden in horror.
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