He stumbled to his feet. El was right—he couldn’t tell the others. Couldn’t begin to explain to them what had to be done, couldn’t ask them to share such a burden.
But this thing, this one terrible thing. He would do it. He would bear it.
“Just the blade,” he whispered numbly to himself as he left.
Caeden blinked away tears as he came back to reality.
It took a long moment for him to collect himself—not because of the naked impact of the memory, this time, but because of what it meant.
This was why he’d created the Plains. This was why he’d become Aarkein Devaed. The Venerate had come apart after he had followed Shammaeloth’s orders, with several of them—including Andrael—unable to believe that he had been doing as instructed. And then when Andrael had ultimately uncovered the truth about Shammaeloth, it had resulted in the creation of Licanius.
Caeden just breathed for a while, staring vacantly, utterly shaken by what he’d seen. It hadn’t been a trick. The presence in that cavern had been … overawing. Not just intimidating or strong or knowledgeable, but incomprehensible. And he’d felt that way even back then, when he’d been at the very height of his own power.
He eventually rubbed his face, feeling a chill as he tried to grasp what he’d learned. He’d killed for his beliefs. He remembered it, remembered that feeling of certainty that listening to El had brought.
It was a hard thing to shake.
And yet, he’d rebelled. After doing everything that El had asked him to do, after driving the Darecians to Andarra and forcing them to construct Deilannis, he’d switched sides.
Part of him could immediately see why. He’d known from the moment that El had shown him the Columns that what he was being asked to do was wrong, against everything that he knew to be good.
But that other part of him … it couldn’t help but wonder. Couldn’t help but remember what being in El’s presence was like.
His thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Nihim, that night before Deilannis. They’d talked of religions, of El—the concept of El as most people knew it, anyway—and of how they could reconcile the concepts of inevitability and free will.
Nihim had called it the natural arrogance of man to want complete freedom, total control over their own lives.
The Venerate described its absence as slavery.
Time passed as he contemplated; he wasn’t sure how much but when he saw motion at the end of the square, he stood again, muscles groaning in protest. He stretched, watching cautiously as Garadis strode toward him, the tall man’s blue eyes flashing amid the fire of his skin. Behind him, the rest of the Lyth gathered silently.
Garadis came to a stop in front of him, contemplating him for a moment.
“We have decided, Tal’kamar.” He sounded like he was forcing the words out, though his expression remained impassive. “We accept—on one condition.”
Caeden breathed out, meeting Garadis’s gaze. “Which is?”
“That you take us to Dareci once we are done.”
Caeden frowned. “Why?”
“Because we will be unable to do so ourselves,” said Garadis quietly. “And because none of us have ever seen our homeland.”
Caeden hesitated, then inclined his head.
“Agreed.” It was a far from unreasonable request. Distance wouldn’t affect the Siphon—he felt certain of that, though he wasn’t sure why—and he knew that he could use the Portal Box to take them there. There could be some ulterior motive to Garadis’s request, of course … but Caeden knew that he was able do it, and he didn’t feel that he could deny the Lyth this. Not when he’d already taken so much from them.
Garadis looked neither pleased nor upset at his decision. “Then let us proceed.”
“Now?” Caeden blinked. “You don’t want time to prepare?”
“We have prepared for two thousand years, Tal’kamar. Two thousand years without being able to see the sky, without knowing the smell of fresh air. Without freedom.” Garadis gestured. “We are ready.”
Caeden just nodded dazedly, drawing the glass sphere from his pocket.
The process took less than half an hour, all told. The Lyth lined up silently, one by one allowing Caeden to press the Siphon against their fiery skin. Each one shuddered and then … dimmed. Not completely, but as they walked away, they glowed more with the light of dying embers than blazing flames.
Men and women passed him in turn, moving off to the side and watching in grim silence, until lastly Garadis stood before him.
Caeden held up the sphere one last time, then hesitated. Something had been plaguing him and he wanted to ask now, while he had the chance. Before it was done.
“Why do you never refer to me as Devaed?” he asked quietly.
Garadis cocked his head to the side.
“Because that is not who you are—and it never was. It is the name you chose in order to instill fear in us, the name you chose because you wanted to pretend that your sins were not yours to own. But when we speak of you, Tal’kamar, we speak of you—for better or worse. Whether destroyer or savior, we will never let you hide behind another name.”
Caeden swallowed, nodding. He’d asked, and he had received his answer.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
Garadis inclined his head.
Caeden pressed the glass to his skin, watching as the sphere glowed for a moment before suddenly flashing impossibly bright, shining like the sun itself, as it had for each of the Lyth. Then, just as abruptly, it was translucent again.
Garadis’s shoulders slumped as his skin faded to a deep red, though his eyes were bright as ever. He took a long breath and nodded to Caeden.
“It is done, Tal’kamar,” he said softly. “Time for you to uphold your end of our agreement.”
It did not take long to send the Lyth through the fiery vortex of the Portal Box; for all the beauty they had built in Res Kartha, none of them appeared to want to take anything with them. There was no rejoicing, no glad voices ringing out at their newfound freedom as the still-imposing men and women walked through the portal one by one. Many glanced at him before they disappeared into the flames, but their expressions were inscrutable, as if they had still not yet decided whether happiness or sorrow was the correct emotion for what was happening.
The square became increasingly still, until finally only Garadis remained. Caeden took a deep breath as the towering man stepped up to the vortex.
“I wish you all the best, Garadis,” he said over the roar.
Garadis watched him for a moment, then inclined his head. “We will see each other again, Tal’kamar,” he replied. “Fate has not finished with either of us yet.”
Without another word and before Caeden could reply, he turned and stepped into the fire.
Caeden stood there for a few moments, then drained the remaining Essence from the Portal Box, deactivating it.
The vortex disintegrated. Utter silence fell.
He gazed out over the wondrous, entirely empty city, allowing himself to catch his breath and sort through his emotions. To luxuriate in his sense of achievement, however brief he knew it would probably be.
It was done. His purpose here, as difficult as it had been, was complete.
After a while, he sighed and reluctantly held the Portal Box out in front of himself again. Found the only face that he hadn’t yet activated.
The sixth destination. The last one.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the end of the plan that he’d been blindly pulled along by for what felt like forever. Nervousness fluttered in his stomach as he considered what that might mean.
Before he allowed himself to think on it too much, though, he poured Essence into the bronze cube, still unable to help flinching back as the vortex exploded into existence again.
He stared grimly at the sight for several seconds, then steeled himself one last time and strode into the flames.
Chapter 41
Wirr tapped his foot nervously against the da
is, looking around at the milling sea of blue cloaks.
There were at least a hundred men and women present. It was the largest group of Administrators he’d seen in one place before—including, he realized wryly, when he’d been officially inducted. That had been not long after the Blind’s attack, though; many in Administration had still been busy in the city and surrounding areas, giving aid where they could. Perhaps their absence then hadn’t been entirely due to who he was. Perhaps.
He sat on a dais at the front of the room, facing the crowd, giving him a good view of just how quickly the hall was filling. Every Administrator with any sort of rank appeared to be in attendance—from Mari and Tachievar, to captains he didn’t think he’d even seen before.
He studied those people’s faces, trying to get a sense of the room. Most wore scowls whenever they looked at him—that was far from unusual, though. Still. Was that a slight smile from Reanne? A brief nod of the head from Heth? Did Tachievar meeting his gaze mean anything, or was the man simply focused on what was happening? He’d spoken to them all over the past few days, and not all of the conversations had gone awfully.
His train of thought was broken as he spotted his mother making her way through the crowd, which parted for her respectfully. After a moment of watching her, he felt a jolt of unease.
In her hands was his father’s notebook.
He swallowed, then restrained a frown as she stepped up onto the podium and sat in the chair next to him, despite in theory having no more authority than any other Administrator in this meeting.
“Son,” said Geladra with a nod as she took a seat, ignoring the curious looks of seemingly everyone in the hall. She looked calm. He wasn’t surprised, even if he did feel a flicker of irritation at her composure. She’d been at his father’s side and dealing with attention like this for longer than he’d been alive.
“Mother,” he replied stiffly, though he made sure not to look unsettled by her presence. There were plenty of Administrators in the room who might still be swayed either way, and he needed to project an air of confidence—not arrogance, but the look of a man who felt comfortable in his right to be there. He knew from both instruction and experience that, consciously or not, onlookers would pick up on that sort of thing.
“I’m disappointed to see you here,” said Geladra, quietly enough that no one else would be able to overhear. She kept smiling, but her tone was ice. “I thought you might have stepped down by now. If what I showed you didn’t change your mind, I don’t know what will.”
Wirr smiled back, trying to look as though the conversation was a friendly one. “What happened to Father was horrible, and I fully intend on bringing whomever did it to justice,” he said, keeping his voice calm and low. “But it has nothing to do with my leadership. Perhaps if you had told me and I had done nothing, you’d be more justified. But you didn’t.” He shook his head. “You say I turn a blind eye to the dangers of the Augurs, and yet you keep it from me when they do something dangerous. That’s the act of someone in this for their own ends, Mother—not someone who wants what’s best for Administration.”
Geladra stiffened a little at that, and she said nothing for a few moments.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she eventually said softly, “but it’s not just about that, Torin. It’s your entire focus. It’s not your fault, but you’ve been indoctrinated by the Tol, and now you leap to believe anything that they tell you.”
She shook her head. “It has led to your legalizing the existence of the Augurs again because you want to defend some ancient, impassable barrier that’s stood for thousands upon thousands of years. It’s led to you thinking that the Gifted don’t need as much oversight as they once did. You’re opening the door a crack for these groups, Torin—but that’s all they need. And you evidently cannot imagine what things will be like once they get a foothold.”
Wirr stared at her with a frown, trying his best to see things from his mother’s perspective. Trying to understand where she was coming from.
“That’s truly what you believe,” he said eventually. “About the Boundary, I mean? Despite the Blind, you honestly don’t think there’s a threat?”
His mother just shook her head. “A threat? Perhaps,” she said softly. “But a threat no greater than that posed by the Augurs. Or Desriel or Nesk, for that matter.” She sighed as she saw the frustration in his expression. “However hard it is for you to grasp that,” she added quietly, “it is twice as hard for me to understand how you can possibly believe in such nonsense.”
She stood and moved back to a seat at the front of the crowd, the conversation over before Wirr could say more.
Wirr watched her go, thoughtful now rather than angry. His mother didn’t intimidate him anymore. She was just like the rest of them—willfully ignorant, passionately believing in something because she surrounded herself with people who also passionately believed in the same thing. He knew the type, now—those who found it easier to listen to people who reinforced what they already thought, rather than actually considering the opinions of those who didn’t.
He gazed out over the gathered faces and had a sudden moment of clarity.
Their opinions were born of ignorance. A willful ignorance, perhaps—one born of fear and anger ingrained over many years—but ignorance nonetheless.
He had no right to force them into changing their minds. But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t be changed at all.
And if they were changed, whether he had his position here wouldn’t matter.
He squared his shoulders, sitting up a little straighter as the certainty solidified. Deep down, he’d still been thinking of the Oathstone as a last-resort option—but despite Taeris’s encouragement, using it would make him worse than his mother and the rest of them. They were acting from blindness, stubbornness, and stupidity … but for the most part, they at least thought that they were doing the right thing. If Wirr used the Oathstone, he’d be doing so with the full knowledge of his wrongdoing.
What his mother had just said had given him another idea. Riskier, perhaps. But one that he thought he could live with.
Taeris would be angry. His uncle would be angry. Fates, he might be angry at himself in a few hours.
But for the first time, it felt like the right choice. Like it was the right thing to do.
The crowd were finally beginning to take their seats, and the chattering voices quieted. Wirr stood, heart pounding. There was a low murmur as he took center stage, most of it sounding disapproving.
“I’ve met with many of you, these past few days,” said Wirr. The noise died down completely as he spoke, the carefully designed acoustics of the hall easily carrying his voice. “I’ve done my best to explain my vision for what Administration should be. I know many of you believe that I am not right for the job because of what I am. Because I have this.” He raised his left forearm, displaying the tattoo there clearly.
He paused, staring out over the now-silent crowd.
“But as I have told many of you—I think that this makes me the best person for the job. The only one for the job. Nobody here can understand the Gifted as I do. Nobody can better understand their potential, both for good and for evil. Nobody can better gauge their powers. You are welcome to feel differently, but I truly believe it to be so.”
He paused.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you how to vote,” he said grimly. “I was going to say that you should vote with your heads, not with your hearts. That you should forget about bloc voting and vote for the person who you think will be best for Administration. I was going to plead with you to forget about politics. To forget about prejudices, just this once.” Wirr closed his eyes for a second. That had been his plan, if he’d resorted to the Oathstone—the most direct influence that he’d felt comfortable with. It might even have worked … but it would have been a fine line to tread. And it may not even have changed the result.
“But.” He gave a rueful smile out to the sea of Administrators. He still
hated speaking publicly, but he had become much more comfortable with it over the past month. “I’ve learned some things this morning. Things that have changed my position.”
He took a deep breath.
“We have an opportunity, right now, to travel directly to the Boundary. The Gifted are about to send people there via a portal. I’ve seen it work before, I can verify that it is real and that it is safe.” He looked around the room. “I want to invite any of you—all of you—to come north with me. This is how confident I am of what is happening up there. If you accept, see the realities of what we face, and return still wanting me to step down? Then I will. And I will not challenge for control of Administration ever again.”
He looked out over the crowd, feeling at peace with his decision. He desperately didn’t want to give up the position of Northwarden, and he was still deeply concerned about the direction that Administration would take with his mother in charge. There were bigger things at stake, though. Geladra was blinded by her hatred for the Augurs right now, but he understood why, and she wasn’t a fool—on at least a purely intellectual level, none of those in the room were. True, some could be almost as bad as Ionis in their irrational fear of the Gifted, and those would cause problems no matter the situation.
But everyone else? If they were confronted with what was happening up at the Boundary—if they saw just a single one of the monsters that the reports indicated were occasionally breaking through—then they would come around. They had to.
Ultimately, more than his position here, that was what mattered.
There was utter silence after Wirr had finished, everyone looking taken aback by his speech. At the front of the crowd, Geladra stared at her son for a long few moments. She fingered the book in her lap thoughtfully.
Then she stood and walked over to him as murmuring began to break out behind her.
“I want your word, Torin. Your oath as my son,” she said softly, so that no one else could hear. “I want to know that this is a genuine offer. That you’re not just intending to use another Gifted trick on us, like back at the estate.”
An Echo of Things to Come Page 62