by Lucy Hounsom
Kul’Das squinted at his hand. ‘The power of the dark gauntlet is necromantic,’ she said. ‘When worn with its partner, it’s said it can raise the dead.’
Gareth looked at her. ‘And what about when it’s worn alone?’
‘You’re in a better position to answer than I.’ Kul’Das shrugged. ‘But if the story of Kingswold’s demise is anything to go by, that power will turn upon the wearer.’
They all stared at Gareth, at the dark circles around his eyes, his sunken features. He looked half-dead already, Brégenne thought with a creeping despair. He couldn’t hold out forever. She imagined the two powers warring inside him, draining his strength, the life in his face, and vowed she wouldn’t give up. But the only thing she could think of was trying to locate Kingswold himself. ‘If we could find his resting place,’ she said, ‘if we could find Kalast—’
‘He died over five hundred years ago,’ Gareth said hopelessly. ‘And if Kalast was destroyed by the Sartyans, we’ll probably find a new city built on its ruins. If we can find it at all.’
He was right. This was Acre: a land for which she had no maps and only the scant knowledge Kyndra and the others had supplied. A foolish errand indeed.
And what of her duties here? Brégenne asked herself. If she left, who would prepare Rairam’s defence, who would make its people aware of the threat? She glanced at Ümvast, but the woman’s eyes were on Gareth. It wasn’t a motherly look or even a sympathetic one. It was speculative, ambitious, and Brégenne didn’t know what to make of it.
‘There’s a chance that the light gauntlet was buried with Kingswold,’ Ümvast said slowly. ‘The enemy would likely have been too afraid to touch it.’
‘How do we know he had a proper burial?’ Kul’Das argued. ‘It was a battlefield. There were hundreds of bodies. The victors might just have dug a pit and thrown them all in together.’
‘Something tells me they didn’t,’ Ümvast said. ‘The fame of Kingswold and his knights was such that they have passed into legend. No warrior, whatever their allegiance, would fail to honour such a band. It is likely he and his men were given a burial, but what kind, we can only guess.’
Kul’Das looked sceptical. She was no warrior, Brégenne guessed. Battlefield etiquette was not a subject in which either of them was versed. Perhaps Ümvast was right and there was a chance – the tiniest, most unlikely chance – that they could find the other gauntlet and save Gareth’s life.
‘Let’s send a message to Kyndra,’ Brégenne said to him. ‘Perhaps she knows of Kalast and can tell us if it still exists.’
Gareth didn’t say anything for a moment and the fire hissed and popped, as it fought its own battle with the cold. Finally, he dropped his eyes to his lap. ‘I can’t ask you to help me, Brégenne. You’re needed here – Mariar needs you. What’s one life compared to all the thousands that could die if war comes?’ His voice was very quiet.
What he said made sense, but it opened a hollow in Brégenne’s chest and she found anger there. Why did Gareth have to die for a mistake? For a power that had nothing at all to do with him? It wasn’t fair.
Ümvast had that speculative look again. She tilted her head on one side so that her braid fell over her shoulder. ‘If you could find the gauntlet, my son, it would bring glory to our people.’
Gareth glanced up, his eyes widening.
‘I could not accompany you, of course,’ Ümvast continued. ‘I must lead us south. But Kul’Das shall go in my stead.’
The woman spluttered. ‘You … you want me to go to Acre?’ Her already pale face had whitened.
‘Certainly,’ Ümvast said. ‘It is an honour you have well earned.’
Judging from her obvious chagrin, Kul’Das did not consider it an honour. Her hand strayed to the staff propped against the wall beside her and she clasped the wood tightly as if begging it to refute Ümvast’s words.
‘I can’t let you march south, knowing what you plan,’ Brégenne said. ‘I left Naris with the intention of making alliances, not enemies.’
Ümvast regarded her with a steady gaze. ‘If you discover that Kalast does indeed exist, I propose a pact. You and Kul’Das shall guide my son on his quest. Should you find the other gauntlet, you will return them both to Kingswold’s rightful descendants. To me.’ Her eyes were hungry. ‘In return, I promise you every blade I can spare should war come to Mariar. We will take no land that is not ours.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But my people need a home. You will find us one, whether through bloodshed or accord, I care not. If I do not hear from you at the end of two months, the deal is broken and I will act as I see fit and in the best interests of my people.’
Brégenne’s heart thumped painfully against her ribs. It was a dangerous promise; she’d effectively be condoning a civil war unless, by the slimmest chance, they actually found what they sought. The Trade Assembly wouldn’t tolerate the northerners on any land they considered theirs. Blood would be spilled and Brégenne didn’t think it would be Ümvast’s. And what of their promise to Argat? She glanced at Gareth, wondering whether he was thinking the same.
‘Two months hardly seems long enough to enter Acre, avoid the Sartyans and find Kalast,’ she said. ‘Three months.’
Ümvast nodded reluctantly. ‘Three months, then. But without the gauntlets, our pact is void.’
Brégenne held out her hand to shake on it, but the fierce woman reached for the knife on her belt instead. Ümvast sliced open her own palm and then gestured at Brégenne, who grudgingly turned hers up. She didn’t bother to hide her wince as her skin was slit. She clasped bloodied hands with Ümvast. The warrior woman’s was large and long-fingered and made Brégenne’s hand look like a child’s. When it was done, she snatched it back, healed herself and wiped the blood off on her cloak.
She beckoned for Ümvast’s hand. The chieftain gave it and watched her own wound close up. ‘Yes,’ she said, staring at her now-unmarked palm, ‘you will serve.’
‘She’s not doing this because she cares for me.’
Brégenne glanced up from the envoi she was busy imbuing with a message. Gareth sat brooding before the fire in the rooms they’d been given for the night, staring into its yellow heart. ‘She doesn’t care whether I live or die,’ he said. ‘She wants the gauntlets to save her people.’
Brégenne couldn’t bring herself to deny it. Gareth wasn’t stupid. They’d both seen the light in Ümvast’s face and the change in her attitude towards her son. Calling him her son, for starters. She’d even patted him on the shoulder and informed him that this was a chance to earn back his title.
‘I take it you didn’t know about your mother before this?’ she said.
‘My mouth falling open didn’t give it away?’ Gareth replied sourly. ‘When I left, Ümvast was a big man with shoulders like an ox and a temper to match.’
‘You said a new chieftain is chosen through a Melee, if I recall?’
‘Yes.’ A hint of pride touched Gareth’s wasted face. ‘I had no idea Mother would enter. She must have been good.’
‘She said she lost her husband,’ Brégenne said, watching him carefully. ‘Your father?’
Gareth dismissed him with a wave. ‘Died before I was born.’
They lapsed into silence for a while. ‘I don’t much care for Kul’Das coming with us,’ Brégenne said eventually. ‘I don’t trust her.’
Gareth shook his head. ‘Me neither. I’m surprised Ümvast keeps her around, being an outsider. We’re notoriously suspicious of outsiders in the north.’
‘I think she’s as reluctant to come as we are to have her along,’ Brégenne mused, turning the half-formed envoi in her hands. It didn’t have a shape yet. Perhaps she’d make it a raven. ‘And that staff she carries – is it usual here?’
‘No. Ümvast – that is, the people – are warriors. They’ve no interest in magic or anything you can’t swing a sword at. It’s why Mother couldn’t accept my leaving.’ He dragged his gaze from the fire to look at her. ‘I think you might have impressed her tho
ugh.’
Brégenne snorted. ‘If all it took was a little lightning—’
‘Not just the lightning. She respects you. I saw it in her face.’
Brégenne didn’t know how to reply to that. ‘Kul’Das is no warrior,’ she said, retreating to the matter at hand, ‘so what did she do to merit her title?’
‘We could ask her.’
‘I get the impression she isn’t fond of me,’ Brégenne said wryly.
‘She’s not the only one coming. We’ve a dozen of Ümvast’s personal guard.’
‘This is if we’re going at all. If Kyndra says Kalast is gone …’ ‘I’m dead,’ Gareth said. He looked down at the gauntlet, once more concealed beneath his glove.
‘I’m sorry,’ Brégenne said quietly.
‘I didn’t think.’
‘No, you’re right. If we went into Acre without anything to go on, it would be a wasted journey.’ Gareth returned his gaze to her. ‘You’re needed here. You shouldn’t put one life above thousands.’
Brégenne looked at the envoi, half-finished in her hands, and said nothing.
‘A raven,’ Gareth noted with a touch of humour. ‘An omen of death. Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘I thought it would get their attention,’ Brégenne said apologetically. ‘Kul’Das’s horrible staff gave me the idea.’ She turned her attention back to the envoi, wondering what else to imprint it with. The memory of Nediah’s last was still with her, that feeling of Kait’s presence in the weave. Although she chided herself, she couldn’t help recalling the golden wolf with its bright paws on her knees. She hadn’t forgotten the surge of warmth she’d felt as it faded, his presence so startlingly strong that it snatched her breath away. And though she’d had nothing like that since, she realized she’d come to expect it, she’d looked forward to it. But to find Kait there instead …
Her eyes prickled and, shocked at the sting of tears, Brégenne blinked them rapidly away. Gareth’s life depended on her; she didn’t have time to waste. If they were going into Acre, she’d likely need every ounce of skill she possessed.
So she addressed the envoi, not to Nediah, but to Kyndra. It was Kyndra who would know about Kalast and the knights, after all. Making sure to imbue it with a sense of urgency, she released it and watched it flap off through a wall.
Gareth stood up. Brégenne pretended not to see his grimace, as if even the act of standing tired him. ‘How long do you think it will take to reach her?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, Gareth,’ she said. ‘But it will fly as fast as I am strong.’
‘And how long do you think –’ He broke off, but Brégenne thought she knew what he’d intended to say. How long do you think I have left?
She went to him, laid her hand on his thin arm. ‘You’re a Wielder of Naris,’ she said, ‘and a man of the north. You can do this, Gareth.’
When he met her gaze, she saw that the brown in his eyes was gradually darkening to black. ‘I’m a novice,’ he corrected, ‘and an exile. What if I can’t?’
Brégenne gave him a grim, determined smile. ‘You won’t be alone,’ she said.
28
Cymenza, Acre
Medavle
‘Now this really is Calmaracian wine,’ Medavle heard Kyndra say. He glanced over from his place by the open garden doors to see her holding up a clear pale vintage to the light of the candles.
Nediah smiled at her. ‘Are you planning to sell me a cask?’
‘That depends whether Rogan would be willing to sell me one.’
‘We might come to an arrangement,’ Rogan said, ‘to celebrate our newfound understanding.’
Medavle frowned and looked out into the night. While he wasn’t wholly convinced by this Republic of Acre, the others had backed Kyndra’s decision to remain in Cymenza and meet with Rogan’s mysterious contacts.
A pale flash caught his eye. Heart in his throat, Medavle followed it into the garden. There it was again, among the cypress trees. The evening was balmy, the sea wind blowing the smoke of the fires away from the iarl’s district.
Her robes gleamed in the light streaming from the house. Medavle blinked, but she didn’t vanish. He took a few steps closer. Isla turned her face to him, tears on her cheeks.
The rational part of Medavle knew she wasn’t there, but she seemed so real … was that the wind ruffling her hair? Surely she wasn’t just an invention of his heart. He closed his eyes and –
He’s running again, running through the halls of Solinaris, desperate to find her. He knows what the Starborn plans to do to his people. He’s done all he can to stop him, but how many Yadin will die regardless? He doesn’t even know whether binding his own life force to Kierik will work and right now he doesn’t care – he must find her.
Chunks of glass litter the marble floors like the tears of a grieving god. Wielders dash past him to lend their strength to those holding the gates, but Solinaris is doomed. The empire has men to spare and flings them mercilessly at the fortress. Flaming balls smash into the walls and there aren’t enough Wielders to bolster the structure. It will fall before the night is through. Whatever Kierik’s greater plan, the Starborn won’t stop the fortress crumbling out from under him.
‘Marius,’ he gasps, grabbing hold of a passing Yadin, ‘have you seen Isla?’
The blond man shakes his head. ‘Not since this afternoon. I have to go, Meda, I have to help Master Varen.’
He watches his brother hurry away and anger lashes his insides. Even in the midst of chaos, when all rules are broken, still the Yadin serve. Perhaps Isla is with her own Wielder, but how is he supposed to find Master Laniel in all this? Why would Isla go to her instead of to him?
There’s still time, he tells himself, knowing how little is left. Still time.
He races through hall after hall, corridor after corridor, until his breath rasps and his heart pounds in his chest. The pain is nothing compared to Isla’s absence. If he cannot take her out of the reach of Kierik’s spell …
A scream draws him. It’s Duela, crouching over a discarded bundle of white clothes. When she sees him, she cries his name. ‘What’s happening?’ Her eyes are huge and fearful. ‘Lukas …’ she chokes, picking up the white cloth. ‘He was here. He was right behind me.’
A dreadful cold seizes Medavle. It has begun and he hasn’t found her.
‘Medavle –’ Duela cuts off sharply. A shadow surrounds her and there is a rushing, as of a chill, dark wind. Before his horrified eyes, she bursts into light, into nothing. Her clothes drop empty to the marble and he turns and flees.
He cannot escape the wind, but as long as he has form, he won’t give up the search. Medavle rounds a corner and skids to a stop. A man stands at the end of the corridor, a little blurred, as if seen through poor glass. He has dark hair, darker eyes and an ageless face, wearied by time. It is a face Medavle knows well.
The man sees him and his expression changes. Revelation, it says, understanding … triumph. Medavle blinks and the man becomes his own reflection, gazing out at him from an as-yet-unbroken mirror.
‘But it wasn’t a reflection,’ he whispered, coming back to himself. And the pale figure he’d followed into the garden wasn’t Isla. The robes were grey and the form they clothed was small and hunched. He walked slowly forward, eyes fixed on the wizened shape beneath the trees. The man – or creature, for Medavle couldn’t truly see its face – spread its arms wide, as in a gesture of welcome. One hand held a staff. ‘You are the Yadin?’ it said.
Other figures, all bandaged, melted out of the night, surrounding Medavle. ‘How are you here?’ he said, taking a step back. ‘How did you find us?’
‘Wherever the Kala walks, he seeds change,’ the stooped figure said. It turned its cowled head towards the house. ‘But we have a pattern on the Kala now. We will always know where he is.’
‘Who are you?’
‘We are the eldest who foresaw the Kala’s return.’ It tilted its head. ‘But we did not foresee your
s. You are the Yadin who came with the Starborn, yes? You asked our people for their names. You wished to meet us and we are here.’
Medavle glanced at the dualakat. There were ten he could see and who knew how many he couldn’t. ‘I am the Yadin,’ he confirmed, ‘the last.’ He briefly closed his eyes. ‘Save for those half-things that haunt the red valley.’
The eldest clucked an unseen tongue. ‘Bodiless, just memories,’ it said and Medavle fought down a surge of sorrow. ‘Would you see them restored to what they were?’
‘You know I would,’ he said harshly. ‘I’d do anything to save them from that fate.’
The dualakat circle tightened and Medavle’s hand tensed on his flute, but he didn’t draw it.
‘Together,’ the eldest said, ‘we could do much.’
Medavle regarded it. ‘You would use me as your anchor.’
‘The Kala told you of our ways.’ The figure seemed pleased. Amongst the folds of its cowl, Medavle caught a slow smile. ‘Your long years hold such promise,’ it breathed and he almost flinched from the greed he heard. ‘You have no idea what we could do with them. But –’ it looked again towards the house – ‘we need the Kala. We do not yet have the power to touch the past without him.’
‘He will not come willingly,’ Medavle said. ‘He claims he isn’t your leader.’
‘He was turned against us,’ the eldest replied with a hiss. ‘Who knows what poison Mariana poured into his ears as he grew?’
‘The Starborn will protect him.’
‘We are a small people and enough precious lives have been wasted attempting to take him by force. So –’ the shrivelled being turned its hooded head to look at the dualakat – ‘we will try another way.’ As soon as the words were spoken, the Khronostians converged on Medavle. Bandaged hands closed on his arms and he flinched from the tightness of their grasp. The eldest moved closer, close enough for Medavle to look down into the cowl.
A man looked back, eyes frosted with age, his features lost in a mass of wrinkles. A withered hand reached out, gently touched Medavle’s chin. ‘You bear three times the years we do,’ the old man whispered, ‘and yet remain untouched by the ages.’ The hunger was clear in his face now. ‘The Kala will be made to see reason. He will help his people. And with you as an anchor … why, Acre may never have been sundered at all.’ His sunken eyes brightened. ‘The Yadin never murdered, Solinaris never conquered.’ He stepped back, holding tightly to his staff. ‘The empire overthrown before it ever began its war.’