The word had been sent out. As they marched inexorably southwest—using the Chasm as a handrail on their left side—people had joined, pulled in from many of the disparate groups that had arisen at his calling. His forces, less than half their total strength, still numbered close to eighteen thousand now.
And yet, no sign of the Imperial military standing in their way. Not even a whisper of the Hardohl. If the reports about Ilyem and the other Hardohl were true, they would make it to the very gates of Mecrithos before seeing a drop of blood spilled.
Gilshamed, though, did not think they would be so fortunate. A part of him even hoped not.
I have outwitted you, Rekaj. You and all your kin, your filth. Send what you may. It is too late to stop us now.
The inevitable encounter was still weeks away, at the earliest. It had been too long since he had spilled the blood of his enemy, and, strangely, he felt himself longing for it. After so many centuries spent dreaming about his revenge, his patience, it seems, had at last run out.
“Scorch me!” Orbrahn said.
Gilshamed looked down to see the young sorcerer seated in one of the wagon’s seats, shaking his head to clear the fog of communion. “What is it?”
Orbrahn sighed. “Another darkwisp attack. Two of our scouts were found. Well, what’s left of them, anyway.”
Gilshamed sighed, looking towards the Chasm. The soil looked grey and barren, and a cloud of dark dust clung to the ground wherever his troops were marching. “We knew staying this close to the Chasm was dangerous. How many have we lost so far?”
“A few hundred, give or take.”
“That many?”
Orbrahn shrugged. “A small price to pay to avoid Imperial entanglement.”
Gilshamed knew it for truth. There were no settlements anywhere near the Chasm, which meant no garrisons, no signs of life at all. “Have they always been so . . . active?”
“What, darkwisps? Not always. Been getting worse, though, recently.”
“Hmm. I may have to do something about it, then. Once our current goals are completed, that is.”
Orbrahn laughed. “That your plan, then? Stick around and help us poor humans who don’t know how to take care of ourselves?”
Gilshamed frowned down at the young man. “Honestly? I have not yet decided.”
It was a lie, of course. During his long centuries of exile, the majority of which was spent combing the boundaries of the Shroud, he had thought of what he would do. In great detail. Endless solitude had granted him the time to think through every possibility, follow the train of logic from fruition to conclusion. In reality, there was only one possible choice for him to make.
And you, young caster, will never be privy to such knowledge.
“Right,” Orbrahn said, the sarcasm dripping. “Well, if I were you, I’d not worry too much about the darkwisps.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
Orbrahn smiled. “It will be dealt with in time, and by far more capable hands than yours.”
Gilshamed glared at him. “What the abyss do you mean by that?”
His tone was intended to intimidate, yet Orbrahn seemed unfazed. “This land is not the same one you left all those years ago. It has changed. Its people have changed. We don’t need some outside influence telling us how to fix our problems. Not anymore.”
Gilshamed’s mind recalled his conversation with Yandumar nearly half a year ago as they fled in the tunnels. His friend—the only one he had had for nearly half his life—had said much the same thing. Was he truly so obsolete?
No.
“Where, then, would this revolution be without me?” said Gilshamed. “What chance your hope for freedom?”
Orbrahn, like a man waking from long sleep, blinked rapidly and shook his head. “My apologies, Gilshamed. I meant no offense.”
It was not enough of an answer. Gilshamed looked around. Several others were within earshot, yet none had voiced their support of Orbrahn’s opinion. Neither, though, had they renounced his words.
Gilshamed had made of himself a symbol. His intention was to bind the hearts and minds of the common people, tear off the veil of oppression, and help them see their fate for what it truly was. And then, to offer them an alternative. A life full of meaning. Hope. So far, he had exceeded even beyond his generous expectations.
But what use was there for a symbol after the hope is achieved? What purpose? Gilshamed struggled to come up with a satisfying answer.
Gilshamed looked around again, but this time the bright visages that met his gaze did not bring him joy.
He felt, instead, a growing disdain for them all.
In silence, he glared down at the dark-haired caster who shared his wagon.
With or without this revolution, I will have my revenge.
The thought warmed him. The smile on his face, now, had nothing to do with maintaining his image for those who followed him.
MEVON KNEW THAT the trek would be dangerous. They were lucky, so far, to have avoided contact. His troops had walked along the southern edge of the Chasm for a while, but he grew increasingly uneasy near it, and, ultimately, had steered them away.
The proximity to the vast, gaping wound in the land was not the only thing that made him feel out of sorts. He had never been long without his captains, and despite the best efforts of all the sergeants now under his command, their efficiency and capability paled in comparison to even the least of the men in his Fist. Orders he expected to take effect within marks instead took tolls. When he needed perfection he got mediocrity. Laziness when he needed professionalism.
The business of leadership was not all he had expected it to be, and he now realized just how much of that burden his men—captains especially—lifted from his shoulders.
“You’re doing fine, you know.”
Mevon turned his head, smiling as orange light from the setting sun gleamed upon Jasside’s face. A breeze, carrying the scent of wild grass, had misplaced a strand of her hair. He reached to push it back behind her ear.
“Reading my mind again?” he asked.
“No need,” she said. “For as hard of a man as you are, you seem to wear your thoughts freely in your expressions.”
“Only around you.”
She looked away, blushing.
It was true, though. She brought out a side of him he had never known existed. He looked at her, and he . . . felt.
He used to think that the only time he would ever feel anything was during battle. Then, when he allowed the storm to rage—when blood filled his senses and life and death greeted him with every passing breath—he knew what it was to truly be alive. To truly feel. Around her—with her—the feeling was similar, yet so, so different.
Better?
Perhaps.
The notion gave him pause. He had always craved blood. Always hungered for his next kill. Yet, as he grew closer to Jasside, her presence, her faith in him, made him think that he could survive without it.
What would my life be without death? He couldn’t imagine it. Had never wanted to. Never needed to. Even in joining this revolution, his main draw—beyond justice, beyond the claims of his father—had been the promise of a fight like no other. A fight to end them all.
But, even in victory, the thought of what would come after frightened him like nothing else could. The thought of . . . peace.
Not anymore.
He took her hand. The gesture brought a gasp of shock from her, as it always did. She had become better, though, at suppressing her reaction to the sudden loss of her power. Mevon had become better at not taking it personally.
“I . . .” he began, shaking his head. I am no good at this sort of thing. “Have you thought of what you will do after?”
“No,” she said, the firmness in her voice surprising him. “I take things one step at a time. Thinking that far a
head makes me lose focus on what’s right in front of me, on the here and now.” She smiled up at him. “And why would I want to do that?”
A feeling, both painful yet exquisite, began to rise within him at her words. He had been with women before, courtesans whose beauty made Jasside seem plain in comparison. Yet, the memory of their faces, their bodies, morphed into something so ugly compared to what he shared with Jasside. And knowing that their relationship had not progressed beyond what it was now—her hand resting within his—gave him hope for what it could become in time. What he could become.
“I am the same,” he said, and meaning it. “I just thought—”
“What? That this story has a happy ending?”
Mevon and Jasside both turned towards the voice.
“Paen,” Mevon said. “I don’t remember inviting you to be a part of our conversation.”
The boy licked his thumb and forefinger, then used them to slick down his mustache and pointed beard. “I don’t recall needing permission.”
Mevon gritted his teeth as Paen approached. He remembered that plausible reasons were cited in support of having the boy join Mevon’s group, but—being exhausted at the time—he could not say what they were. Something about the kid sent shivers of repulsion through him.
“Tell me then,” said Mevon, “why are you supporting us if you think the revolution won’t turn out well?”
Paen laughed. “As if happiness could determine profitability. You truly don’t know anything, do you?”
“I know how to kill. Does that count?”
“For our purposes,” Paen said, “absolutely.”
Mevon frowned. He started towards the boy but found himself stopped—not by force, but simply by Jasside’s hand placed gently upon his wrist. He looked down at her, receiving a silent look that said, Not worth it.
Mevon took a deep breath and continued marching at her side. “Let’s hope it will be enough.”
“It will be,” said Paen. “If anyone is going to nail the last plank on this scorching bridge, it will be you.”
Mevon nodded.
Even when it’s burning.
WAR ROOM. VOREN had used the words before, but here, now, inside the place, he finally came to an appreciation for what it meant.
He sighed, scanning the barrels full of rolled-up maps and shelves of scrolls holding tallies of troops and supplies. Charts mounted on the walls listed out the command structure, including unit and location, right down to the lowest lieutenant. Supreme Arcanod Grezkul seemed right at home, even more so than Emperor Rekaj.
Voren had never felt more out of place.
He ran his hand along the table, noticing how slick the wood felt, how pungent the oils that kept it preserved. The piece was ancient, possibly older than anyone in the room. Voren did not recognize the tree that it came from. It was a relic from a forgotten time, heralding from the swamplands that the tribe of mierothi people used to call home. Lost now, like so many things.
Carved into the table was the empire. The sculpting was meticulous and thorough, yet bland. To Voren’s eye, practicality ruled, not beauty.
And does that not sum up the empire in its entirety?
Rekaj sat at the head of the table. He had a glass of wine, untouched, in front of him. Voren was waiting for him to explain why they were here. Why I’m here. He tried ignoring the stares and whispers and pointed fingers from the rest of the council members as he trod upon sacred mierothi ground, and thought about how Rekaj had instructed him to act.
Subservient, as always. But playing the demure, helpless figure that he had for so long would not do to support his cause, his new reason for existence. Instead, he must project an aura of confidence, competence, and present himself as an equal, someone with just as much at stake as the rest.
Voren still had no idea how he would accomplish this.
He tried to feel it. Tried to make himself one of them in his mind. Tried not to think of them as the enemy but instead as allies. Not that he had any choice. No, choice had been taken from him the day Gilshamed returned to the continent. If he wanted to survive—and Voren most certainly did—then he had to make this work.
Somehow.
Finally, Rekaj sat forward in his seat. “Done with your whispering?” he asked no one in particular. The room went silent. No one responded. “Good.” Rekaj nodded in Voren’s direction. “He is here because I asked to him to come. Asked, not ordered.” He took out the letter and passed it to Grezkul. “This is why.”
Grezkul read it silently, then, at Rekaj’s urging, pressed it into the next set of hands. The paper made its way around the room until all had read it. Each eyed Voren with curiosity after they had finished reading. Truln added pity to his gaze.
Rekaj lifted his hand, palm up. Voren stood and cleared his throat. “Gilshamed,” Voren began. “You all know his name. You know his face. You know what he is capable of. And you know that, had you not found a way to banish all of the valynkar the day of the Cataclysm, he would have defeated you long ago.”
No one spoke, but Voren could feel the room tense at his words. No one liked being reminded of failure, especially mierothi. Most especially these mierothi. He gathered his breath, knowing they would enjoy what he would say next even less.
“He is back. Gilshamed is the leader of the rebellion.”
Grezkul pounded the table. “I knew it!” He turned to Rekaj with venom in his eyes. “I told you, right after the voltensus was destroyed, but you didn’t listen.”
“Inquiries were made, but nothing substantial ever came of it,” replied Rekaj calmly.
“It makes sense,” said Marshal Adjudicator Jezrid. “Gilshamed always did know how to hit us where we were weakest.”
Mother Phyzari Kitavijj pointed at Lekrigar. “You let him in, didn’t you? I thought you’d at least be smart enough to guard the tunnel entrances, or did you leave that job to those creatures of yours?”
“It matters not how he got in,” he said, and Voren could tell that despite his indifferent demeanor, the high regnosist desperately hoped that was true. “What matters is what we’re going to do about it now.” He shot his contemptuous gaze at Voren. “And I assume that’s why you’re here, is it not?”
“It is,” Rekaj said. “Tell them, Voren.”
Voren swallowed hard. No turning back now. “We know two things for certain. First, that Gilshamed wants me dead. I don’t think I have to explain why.”
Amused chuckles answered.
“Second, that there are only two valynkar currently within the Shroud.”
When he said nothing further, Grezkul slapped the table again. “Enough with the dramatics. Whatever it is you came here to say, tell us!”
“Don’t you see?” Truln said. “Only two of them. Our biggest problem is not knowing where the rebellion is. Where their leaders are.”
The room became still.
“Of course,” Kitavijj said. “Communion.”
Voren nodded. “That is what I bring. What no one else can.”
He studied the looks that came his way, watched them morph from what they had always been to something different. Something other than contempt.
Respect will come. This will do for now.
“So what are you waiting for?” Jezrid said.
“Nothing.” Voren smiled, projecting confidence he did not yet feel and unity that make his stomach turn. He closed his eyes and energized briefly. When he opened them again, he stood in a sea of pure darkness.
And there, distant yet unmistakable, a single speck of light.
Chapter 13
DRAEVENUS AND HARRIDAN Chant approached the entrance, a battered wooden door rimmed with frost and sealed by mud and stone. Chant began kicking his boots together in an attempt to dislodge the snow. Draevenus pulled to a stop as his escort put out an arm in front of him.
&nbs
p; “Close your eyes and plug your ears,” Chant said.
“Excuse me?” Draevenus said.
“It’s a secret knock. I can’t have you figuring it out.”
Draevenus raised an eyebrow.
Harridan threw his hands up. “Oh, all right. Be that way. We’ll just have to kill ya’ then.”
Chant turned to the door and rapped three times with his knuckles.
Draevenus waited a beat. “Is that it?”
A smile, then two more taps.
Then one.
Chant brought both fists to the door and began pounding out a chaotic rhythm. If there was any way to discern the pattern, Draevenus did not even know where to begin.
“All right, all right,” a voice shouted from behind the door. He heard a squeal as the latch turned. The door jerked open, swinging inside and shaking loose white flakes from the frame.
“Shadow!” Chant said. “What took you so long?”
“ ’Bout to ask you the same thing.” Shadow’s eyes fell on Draevenus. “At least you didn’t come back empty-handed.”
Shadow, like Chant, was an old man. Old, yet his movements betrayed a strength that most young men would envy. And, also like Chant, Draevenus could swear the name was familiar somehow.
“Well, get in here,” Shadow said. “Can’t have you freezing to death before we even start this thing.” He stepped back and waved them both inside.
A fire burned, warming the cavern, and Draevenus immediately began peeling off the outer layers of his clothing. A dozen men sat around the blaze. They eyed Draevenus but kept about their tasks. Some sharpened swords, other fit straps to shields, and one man was scraping the rust from his armor. It was the last that caught his eye because, despite its age and wear, it was still quite distinguishable.
It was the armor of an Elite.
Draevenus looked to Chant and Shadow. The names, in conjunction with this new context, sparked a memory.
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