Those old memories bubbled to the surface again as she recalled Etchings from other times in her life: from a Svenzar back when Nerian became the Shadowbearer, and even before that, when—. She forced the thought from her mind. As she’d done for innumerable years, she would act as if she had no knowledge of the events she did. In many respects, it was the only way to maintain her sanity.
At present, Ancel and his father waited outside the room. When she left, he’d been pacing anxiously. She smiled. Several months ago, she doubted if he would ever be like he once was, devouring his classes with fervor. But the combination of being hunted by the shade, the attack on Eldanhill, and his mother’s taking had changed him as drastically as Irmina abandoning his love. Unlike the pain wrought by Irmina’s loss, most of what he’d become was positive. He was once more dedicated to learning, following instructions in his classes, showing the ability to understand tiny nuances of Forging, and deciphering aspects of the lessons without detailed explanations. His skill with Forging had increased exponentially as had his swordsmanship. Ancel worked tirelessly at both, from the time the classes at the Mystera began in the morning until night. He never complained.
The smile dissolved into a frown as she considered his other side. A darker side. For a while, he’d used the emotions to spur him on and help hunt down the remaining shadelings in Whitewater Falls. Once that threat had been removed, however, he continued to venture into the forests and the mountains, often hunting animals. She recognized the craving at once. A need not just to lash out in anger, but to kill. Had he ever Forged when not within the control of the Eye? Had the essences within Mater already took their toll on him and began a chain of events from which there may be no return? Would Pathfinders arrive in Eldanhill to attempt to take him? At some point, she needed to be certain if the boy had surrendered to the promise of power only the strongest Matii heard. The chance of survival, if he had any, came down to avoiding the Tribunal and the Pathfinders. A daunting, near impossible task.
Shin Galiana chased the thoughts away and focused on the giant. First things first, she must help the boy obtain the necessary training. If what he said was true, before her lay the answers to the Etchings.
The giant’s own ended at his neck. She squinted as she studied his features. Something about him seemed familiar, but try as she might, she couldn’t place it. Where have I seen you before? She paced around him, taking in every nuance of his face, from the ragged scars running down the left side, to the angular jaw and squared chin hidden beneath mounds of facial hair, to the length of his unkempt locks spilling down his back. Whatever it was, something under his wild countenance tried to tickle a memory. After a few minutes straining for a recollection, she gave up and got on with the mending.
The man still clutched his massive greatsword, so she started there. The torches in their sconces on the wall and the candles around the room reflected from the weapon’s polished surface, highlighting the runes and glyphs. Only one type of metal carried such a high sheen. Silversteel. Imbued no doubt. A divya. She considered Forging to find out exactly what kind but quickly chided herself for almost making a grievous error. There could be some kind of trap or ward worked into the weapon that would trigger when touched by any Forge other than its owner.
She tried to pry his fingers from the sword, but the blackened joints would not budge. The man’s fingers were no longer frozen, but they were as rigid as a block of stone. Disarming him would prove impossible.
The wound, then.
She slid a short stool closer to her table and climbed up. For this type of work, it was best to be directly over what she needed to cut. Leaning to one side, she reached out to the table that held her tools. She straightened with a small knife in her hand. As she bent over the man’s prone form, something about his armor caught her eye.
Squinting so tight it almost hurt, she peered from his boots back to his leathers. How did I miss this? The man’s boots were ragged, indicative of months of nonstop travel. Small rips and tears exposed blackened flesh. She climbed down and walked to the end of the table. The bottom of his boots were so worn that in places the soles of his feet were exposed. Why did you do this to yourself? What was so important that you traveled until you were in this state?
However, his feet weren’t her greatest concern. If his boots were in this condition, his skin frostbitten where exposed, his hair a dirty, caked-mess, and his body reeking as if he hadn’t seen a bath in only the gods knew how long, why, except for the artwork, was his armor as spotless as his sword?
Could those also be Etchings on his leather? They matched perfectly where the sleeves of the chestpiece ended. So much so, she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Galiana hurried to the door and peeked outside. “Stefan, come here please.”
Ancel snapped to attention from where he sat on a chair against the wall, his eyes anxious. “Is everything fine?”
“Yes. I just need to speak to your father for a moment.” She beckoned to the elder Dorn.
In a few long strides, Stefan crossed the room. “What’s wrong?” He drew next to her and stared down into her face in an attempt to read her expression.
“We will talk inside.” She let him in, took one more glance toward Ancel, gave him a reassuring nod, and then closed the door, and locked it.
“Well?” Stefan paused to look at the giant before turning to face her.
“What did you shoot him with?”
“An arrow?”
“Do not play the fool, Stefan. You know what I mean.”
A pained expression drifted across Stefan’s face. “A divya arrow. I didn’t know who or what he was and with things how they are, I always carry one nocked and ready.”
“That’s what I thought. Look at his boots and his armor.”
Stefan didn’t turn. “I noticed when we were in the forest.”
“Where have you seen this before? The artwork, or rather, the Etchings.” Galiana ambled over to the body.
“Besides on my son? The Svenzar back when we battled Nerian had the same.”
“Yes. I believe the time has come and that’s why our Listeners have spotted the Svenzar in the Red Ridge Mountains. When I leave, I will send word to all the Listeners to begin the assembly.”
Stefan nodded, his mouth curving into a smile. “The council may not agree. Not that their disapproval would stop you.”
“You and Thania began this, Stefan. The dice have been cast. We cannot pick them up now.”
“Indeed.”
“Now,” she said, “for the second issue. Inspect the sword, carefully.”
Stefan strode to the table and bent close, running his hand along the blade. After a moment, he gasped. “How did I miss this? The markings are identical to Ancel’s sword.”
“Yes. The Access Key,” Galiana said. “This confirms the existence of more than one, but what purpose does his serve?”
“He’s the only one who can answer that.” Stefan straightened. “Can you save him?” He gazed down at the man, his brows drawing together. “I get this … sense as if I know him or should … I don’t like it, but if he’s the chance Ancel needs to harness his power …”
Galiana understood all too well. “I get the same impression but I cannot place his face. As for saving him, I’m not sure.” She opened her Matersense and gasped.
The usual patterns of essences she carefully arranged around her home in wards were now disfigured, seething like a boiling black cauldron. They congregated around the giant’s prone form in bands and strands so thick and comingled she couldn’t separate one from the other. It should have been impossible. Since Mater made up everything within the world, those with an innate ability for mending like herself, were able to distinguish how the essences flowed into a form. How they worked, where light encouraged life, opened an artery, where shade wo
uld close the very same blood vessel to prevent overuse or slow a racing heart.
But not on this man.
Where the essences should have touched his armor and body, they stood a few inches above him instead. The space between the seething mass of power and the man was only an inch thick, but it was plain to see. Something around his body prevented Mater from touching him. Some kind of shield. If she cocked her head just right and strained her Matersense hard enough, she managed to make out a colorless, nebulous membrane.
“Is something wrong?” Stefan asked.
“I cannot mend him.” Galiana sagged from the effort of examining the giant so deeply.
“That’s a first,” Stefan said. “You sure?”
“Yes, there’s a shield of some sort protecting him.” Vision blurry, she nodded. She located the chair near the table and slid into it.
“Are you well?”
“A-A little tired from reading him.”
Stefan strode across the room to her desk against the wall. He poured some water from a pitcher.
“No,” she said. “Give me some kinai instead.”
He nodded and picked up the other container with the red liquid. “Is there anything you can do to help him at all?” After pouring the water back into its pitcher, he refilled the cup with kinai juice. “I don’t know if he’s dying, but he doesn’t appear to be getting any better.” Stefan brought the drink over to her.
She took the cup gratefully. “I am wracking my brain for a solution, a way to mend him, but I come up with nothing.” She gulped down a mouthful of kinai, savoring the sweet taste. “Even if I linked with several other Matii, I do not think they would help. Whatever is causing the effect around him, be it his Etchings or his armor, the essences cannot penetrate it right now. I have never seen anything of the sort.”
“What if we tried to make a hole using a divya the same way I was able to pierce his armor with one?”
She took another deep drink and shook her head. “That’s the problem. If the essences cannot get through, how did your arrow?”
“Who knows?” Stefan shrugged.
“I guess it is worth a try.”
The kinai began to work, the fire it brought racing down her gullet. Moments later, the fatigue washed away. Refreshed, she stood.
“Should I go out and get the same type of arrow?” Stefan asked from where he stood next to the giant.
“No, I actually have another idea.”
Stefan stepped away from the man, making room for her.
The remainder of the kinai in hand, she stood on her stool and stretched over the giant’s face until the cup was directly over his mouth. Then she poured.
The liquid splashed onto his lips without the slightest hindrance. His mouth parted and within moments, his throat moved as he gulped down the drink.
“More,” Galiana whispered in amazement, passing the cup to Stefan. Why hadn’t she thought of this right away? She used kinai in her most potent mixtures, but it still needed the aid of an actual Forging. Could the properties within the fruit work all on their own?
Stefan brought her another cup filled to the brim. This too she poured down the man’s throat.
“Look,” Stefan said, his words a hiss of wonder.
Galiana glanced to where Stefan pointed. Her mouth dropped open, jaw unhinged.
The arrow was moving on its own, wriggling up through the leather. Blood dribbled around the wooden shaft. With a final push, the arrow fell to the side, slid off the now invisible shield, and dropped to the floor.
The giant coughed, and his eyes opened.
Chapter 10
Ryne woke from a fitful dream where the world burned. Within it, he fought a black-garbed man, who like himself, employed his Etchings at will. By the man’s movements, Ryne determined he used the same Styles as the one he fought when he destroyed the Wraithwoods in the Barrier Mountains.
A painful throb wracked his chest. The remainder of the dream was a blur, but he did remember a man, a dead man, shooting him with a bow. It shouldn’t have been possible, but the shaft had somehow penetrated his shield. He also recalled a golden-haired woman with an aura he recognized from deep within the Fretian Woods when he saved Kahkon’s life. Vision blurry, he tried to focus, and slowly the shadow above him resolved into the face of a stern looking, silver-haired female with eyes the color of honey.
“W-who are you,” he said. To his ears, the words sounded garbled.
The woman frowned before her face disappeared altogether.
Above him was a gray stone ceiling. He reached a tentative hand to his wound and puckered his brow. The hole and the arrow were gone. His armor had also repaired itself. How? For the first time he noticed the sweetness on his tongue.
Kinai.
Ryne licked his lips and lurched up into a sitting position. He sniffed. Something reeked. Torches and candles lit the interior of a room, throwing shadows from shelves spaced at even intervals along the walls. Vials, flasks, books and other utensils synonymous with mending crowded the racks. A few chairs, a small stool, a desk, and the table he sat on were the only other furniture in the otherwise small, pristine room. The cleanliness made the stench stand out even more.
“What’s that awful smell?” he asked.
“You.”
He looked down toward the voice. Face rife with wrinkles, a diminutive woman stood close to the table, her lips twitching into a smile. Dressed in sky blue robes with long flowing sleeves, she studied him. Gnarled fingers interlocked, two skinny forefingers tapping against each other, she appeared to be waiting patiently. Familiar patterns to match her eye color bloomed in her aura.
Ryne scratched at his bearded face. The hair reached down to his chest. “I need a shave.”
“You need a bath,” the woman said.
He tilted his head to one side. Something about her face definitely seemed familiar. Awfully familiar. “Do I know you?”
“Do you?”
“I think I do.”
“Oh? From where?”
He opened his mouth to say then snapped it closed, recalling the dead man who shot him. The memory clicked like a key in a lock. He did know her. Ashishin Galiana Calestis, one of his advisors when he was King Nerian the Lightbearer. His sworn enemy when he became Nerian the Shadowbearer. The woman’s presence made the man exactly who he thought: Stefan Dorn, his old Knight Commander and General. Ryne frowned.
Stefan was dead.
He killed the man himself, while Sakari had taken care of his children.
“No, I must be mistaken.” Ryne took a steadying breath before his past atrocities overwhelmed him. “Where’s the man who shot me?”
“I’m right here.”
Body tensing, Ryne turned his head to the voice. It was deeper than he remembered but much the same. So were those eyes. Hard, glinting emeralds, reflecting intelligence with a habit of assessing people and circumstances. Weighing, always weighing. The face was older with a few scars. Gray streaked the once full, dark hair. Stefan Dorn appeared a bit thinner, but as usual, he was clean-shaven and neat even in fur and leather armor.
At any moment, Ryne expected the man to charge him, swinging the sword at his hip. Ryne attempted to appear unconcerned, not allowing his hand to tighten on his greatsword.
Stefan did not move. He simply watched, his eyes missing nothing. No semblance of recognition crossed the old Knight Commander’s face.
Ryne frowned before another sliver of memory came to him. Whoever commanded him in the past had changed his appearance, shrouding him. The Forging settled an inch above his armor and body similar to the shield his aura formed whenever something threatened his life. Using the shroud, his true self remained hidden for centuries. The Forging was similar in many ways to the seals he and the other Eztezians pla
ced on themselves to hide from the shade and prevent themselves from using their power to destroy the world. In his latest incarnation, his present one, the shroud had been removed.
“Why did you attack me? I never meant you any harm,” Ryne said.
Stefan smirked. “Let’s see. You’re a lot bigger than most men. You stepped out of the woods brandishing that monster of yours,” he nodded toward the sword, “while my son and I were fighting wolves. What did you expect? A welcome clap on the back?”
A son? Impossible. It might explain how his shield hadn’t protected him. After all, it was a part of the Etchings. If Stefan had a son, his aura might have disrupted Ryne’s. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he recalled giving the order for Sakari to execute Stefan’s son and daughter. Not that he wanted to carry out the act, but the Manipulation used on him was something he was unable to break. Thinking back to those events, he’d been a completely different person under the control of a power greater than his own. The idea such a power existed almost made him cringe. In most people’s eyes, it would not be an excuse for his crimes.
Ryne opened his eyes. The boy … Ancel. Stefan’s previous children were Anton and Celina. A different son then, named in the memory of those two. The bond had brought him directly to the boy. Could fate be so cruel as to make Stefan’s latest son the one who’d been born with enough power and control for a netherling to bestow its Etchings? Or if not fate then something more? The occurrence did reveal that Stefan’s line was even closer to his own than he ever thought. If what he experienced during his arduous trek here held true, the boy might grow into an extremely powerful Eztezian.
However, there was the issue of the darkness he sensed in the boy’s aura. “Your boy, is he—”
“He’s fine,” Stefan said. “Mind telling us what you were doing in the forest?”
“Certainly, but at least tell me your names first? I’m Ryne Waldron.” The best lies were those closest to the truth. He’d been Ryne long enough for the name to pass as his real one.
Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood Page 8