Reign of Ash

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I’m afraid we’ve cost you the shop,” Penhallow said as they ran through the narrow tunnel.

  “I’ve got your disk. It’s a shame about the rest, though. Ah well. Nothing lasts forever,” Ambrose replied.

  Connor felt as if he were hurtling through the darkness. He scraped painfully against the rough rock walls and banged against outcroppings so that he was certain he would be bruised and bleeding when they emerged. Finally Ambrose slowed, and in another minute, Connor saw the flash of flint on steel and then the welcome glow of a lantern. In the light, he could see that they had reached a way station of sorts, with lanterns and candles, a few small bundles of wood, and leather knapsacks.

  “How can you trust him?” Connor demanded. “He was going to betray us!” He gasped and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

  Penhallow smiled. “He warned us before we ever entered that we were compromised.”

  “How?”

  “Did you see a red battle flag in the window, lad?” Ambrose asked, chuckling. “Lanyon and I have been using flags to send messages for a long, long time.”

  “I didn’t dare tell you because I didn’t want to endanger Ambrose,” Penhallow added.

  “What about endangering me?” Connor said, still unwilling to back down.

  Ambrose grinned. “He’s got fight, I’ll say that for him.” The talishte shopkeeper leaned against the stone wall. “I knew the shop was being watched before I knew what the watchers wanted. None of them cared about my window display, but I knew Lanyon would get the message immediately.”

  “Ambrose always has a variety of weapons close at hand,” Penhallow said. “Old army habit. I didn’t want to risk Reese’s men destroying him if we didn’t show up at all, but I was fairly certain we could fight our way out.”

  “Just in case I ever actually had to use this passageway, I thought it best to be prepared,” Ambrose said. “I set this up before Reese’s men came. Figured that sooner or later, someone would try to kill me.” He gave Penhallow a sidelong glance. “Seemed logical if you were involved. Oh, and there’s even some food for your pet mortal.”

  “I’m not a pet,” Connor grumbled.

  Ambrose looked from Connor to Farod and back again. “Whatever you say. I also put some dried meat away for the dog, just in case.” He smiled. “I took your advice that I’d better be prepared for the worst, Lanyon. Then again, you’ve always had a genius for getting me into trouble.”

  “Just like old times,” Penhallow replied, and in the dim light, Connor could see a faint smile on the talishte’s face.

  “Old times? You two have done this sort of thing before?”

  “Aye. That we have,” Ambrose said. “Served in His Majesty’s army together long ago.”

  Connor looked from Ambrose to Penhallow. “Exactly which ‘Majesty’ are we discussing?”

  “King Drostan,” Ambrose replied, “most recently.”

  Connor’s eyes widened. “King Drostan lived over three hundred years ago,” he said quietly.

  “And a fine king he was,” Ambrose said wistfully. “He was the grandson of King Hougen, who brought back the magic at Mirdalur.”

  “Let’s get moving and tell the tale when we’re a bit safer,” Penhallow cautioned.

  They picked up the knapsacks and continued on their way, but a score of questions formed in Connor’s mind as they walked. He put them aside in favor of more practical concerns but vowed to press both Penhallow and Ambrose for answers as soon as he could.

  “Where does this tunnel lead?” Connor asked after they had walked for a long time in near darkness.

  “We go under the city for a ways,” Ambrose replied. “There’s a warren of tunnels below Castle Reach, and before the Great Fire, they all connected. Tunnels run all the way down to the wharves and come up under the Rooster and Pig, among other places.”

  “Do you think Reese’s men will be waiting for us?”

  In the lantern light, Connor saw Ambrose shrug. “The tunnels don’t run in a straight line. Some of them have been blocked, and the rest come up in enough different places that Reese would be hard-pressed to watch them all. And there would have to be survivors to know we didn’t die in the blaze. I’d say our odds are good.”

  “Reese already knows we’ve destroyed his men,” Penhallow observed.

  “He’ll have expected casualties,” Ambrose replied. “It may take longer to figure out that we’ve escaped.”

  “We can’t make it back to the castle before daylight,” Connor added.

  “We’ll have to spend the day here in the tunnels. Tomorrow night, we’ll move on,” Penhallow replied. “It’s too dangerous for us to stay in the city. We’ve gotten what we came for.”

  They reached a wide, dry spot in the rocky passageway, and Penhallow signaled a stop. Connor sank to the ground, exhausted, and realized how hungry he was. He rummaged through his knapsack to find hard sausage and a filled wineskin. Ambrose fished out dried meat for Farod, who finished it with a snap and a gulp, then looked longingly at Ambrose for more. When Connor finished eating, he returned his attention to Ambrose and Penhallow.

  “What about you? Have you fed?” Although Penhallow had earned his trust, Connor was not yet completely sure of Ambrose’s loyalty, and it had occurred to him that he might be stranded in a dark tunnel with two hungry talishte.

  “You’ve naught to fear from me, boy,” Ambrose said. “And even if I were a mind to taste you, I’m quite sure Lanyon wouldn’t permit it. No matter. I fed before you came.” He patted Farod. “So did Farod, although the greedy thing is always begging a treat.” The large dog wagged his tail, then settled down beside his master.

  “I’ll hunt tomorrow night, when I scout our exit,” Penhallow replied. “So you can put your fears to rest,” he said with amused forbearance.

  “You said you’d seen the madness come before,” Connor said, returning to his questions.

  “Sometimes, when the magic dies, it’s just a single continent,” Ambrose said. “There are legends of times when it failed throughout the known world, and those were dark times indeed.” He leaned forward, his eyes glowing in the lantern light. “Can you even conceive of what it would mean to have much of the world gone mad?”

  Connor shivered, but it had nothing to do with the chill in the tunnel. “I don’t think I want to.”

  “It isn’t just the madness,” Ambrose continued. “The magic storms grow more frequent, larger. Cities wither because people prefer to move about to avoid the storms. All the things that make a civilization great die with the grand cities.” He paused. “And as the storms grow, the monsters come.”

  Connor looked up. “Monsters?”

  Penhallow nodded. “No one’s quite sure where they come from, whether the magic spawns them or it rips a hole in the fabric of the universe that allows them to come through from somewhere else. But the longer the hasithara is gone, the stronger the visithara becomes. And the more monsters begin appearing.”

  “What kind of monsters?”

  Ambrose had settled down on the rocky floor of the tunnel, angled so that he would be alerted should anyone approach from the passageway ahead of them. He stared into the darkness. “Things with teeth much bigger than mine,” he replied. “Flying creatures, with talons strong enough to snatch a man from the ground the way a hawk catches mice, and with beaks sharp enough to peck out his heart in a single strike. Shadows that can kill a man just by passing over him and taking his breath. Scaled things with bulbous heads and fish eyes and teeth like a shark, that walk on land and run faster than a horse – and other things just as bad.”

  Connor watched Ambrose and felt a chill down his back. If such things frighten a talishte, what hope do mortals have? he wondered.

  Penhallow’s expression had grown sad. “The legends say ancient civilizations possessed great magic and then were destroyed when the magic died. I’ve walked among the ruins, just dust and memories.”

&nbs
p; “Do we know how they raised the magic?”

  “Each time, the magic rises differently,” Ambrose replied. “It may be that the nodes of power require different things to bind the magic. Or it may vary depending on who does the binding. But on one thing the legends agree: It’s bound to the blood of those who harness it.”

  “The Lords of the Blood,” Connor replied.

  Penhallow nodded. “And it means that, among the thirteen lords who bound the magic four hundred years ago at Mirdalur, at least one of them was a direct descendant of someone who had bound the magic before.”

  “And the disks?” Connor asked.

  “Insurance,” Penhallow answered. “Since we don’t know exactly how the magic was raised before Mirdalur, it makes sense to gather the objects that were important to the men who raised it. That’s why we need to find Vigus Quintrel. If my hunch is correct, he had it figured out, and he went into hiding to preserve that knowledge, knowing that there would be men like Reese who wanted to keep it from rising again.”

  Connor leaned back against the rock wall and closed his eyes. “But why would Reese want a world filled with madmen and monsters?”

  “Pentreath Reese thrives on chaos,” Ambrose replied. “Just as vultures feast on a battlefield, Reese is strongest when the world is in tatters and there is no one to constrain him.”

  “A kingdom of madmen,” Connor murmured. “What honor lies in such a thing?”

  “It’s not honor Reese seeks,” Penhallow replied. “It’s power. When everything falls apart, Reese fills the void.”

  Connor drew his cloak around him. He had enough food in his belly to let him sleep, and the wine warmed him. Farod lay between Connor and Ambrose and appeared to have accepted Connor, so the big dog did not stir when he stretched out next to him. Penhallow settled himself in a position so he could see anyone who might approach from the way they had just come.

  “Where next?” Connor asked.

  “I’ve contacted Geir through the kruvgaldur,” Penhallow replied. “Once we get out of the tunnels, you and I have business elsewhere.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  A faint smile touched the corners of Penhallow’s lips. “I intend to request an audience with the Wraith Lord.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I

  ’ve never really been this far west,” Verran said, staring out across the rolling land. “I didn’t know it was this beautiful.”

  “Or dangerous,” Blaine agreed. They had woken with the dawn. Now, spread before them was a landscape they had not seen by daylight. On the way to Riker’s Ferry, they had ridden across flatlands that, before the Great Fire, had been cattle pastures. They rode into the foothills of the Belhoven Mountains, just beyond the Pelaran River.

  “The only mountains I’ve ever seen were in Edgeland,” Kestel said, coming up to stand beside Blaine. “These are just as beautiful.”

  The sharp stone peaks of the Belhoven Mountains slashed across Donderath like a bony spine. The tallest crags stretched into the clouds, capped year-round with snow. While Blaine and the others were still a distance from the mountains themselves, the rocky spires dominated the westward horizon.

  “Durantha lies at the base of Mount Elom, over there,” Blaine said, pointing toward one of the smaller distant peaks. “But first we’ve got to get across the river.”

  “And crossing by ferry is definitely not an option,” Kestel remarked, with a backward glance in the direction of the town from which they had fled.

  “According to the maps, there’s a bridge to the south,” Blaine replied. “It means backtracking, but it can’t be helped.”

  “This place we’re going to, it was a spot where the magic was especially strong?” Kestel asked.

  Blaine nodded. “I found it in the book Grimur gave you. The Lyceum of Tobar at Durantha was a place for mage-scholars and archivists. There was a grand library, a collection of magical objects, relics, even the bones of powerful magic users.”

  “Bones?” Kestel asked, with a sharp look at Blaine. “Why bones?”

  Blaine shrugged. “Grimur’s book doesn’t come right out and say it, maybe because it was written for people who already understood, but I get the feeling the keepers of the lyceum thought that preserving the bones would help protect them.”

  “So it’s haunted?” Verran said. “That’s just great.”

  “Just because there are bones doesn’t mean there are ghosts,” Kestel said, landing a good-natured punch to Verran’s shoulder.

  “How else do dead people protect a place?” Verran challenged.

  “It depends on how ‘dead’ they actually are,” Blaine replied. “Geir does a pretty good job of protecting us.”

  “Geir’s undead, not just dead. There’s a difference,” Verran sniffed.

  A gust of wind came across the plain, and despite her heavy cloak, Kestel shivered. Blaine put his arm around her and she did not pull away. From the camp behind them came the smell of a fire, and the tangy scent of a pot of fet brewing over the coals. Blaine turned to look. Piran was deep in conversation with Borya and Desya. Illarion was tending the troupe’s goats and chickens. Kata bent over the fire, poking at the coals with a stick and singing quietly to herself. Zaryae sat at the edge of their camp, facing outward, utterly still.

  “What about the troupe?” Kestel asked quietly. “Last night it sounded as if they intended to come with us.”

  “They didn’t have to save us, but they did,” Blaine replied. He nodded toward Zaryae. “I think she’s the reason why.”

  Kestel looked up at him. “What do you think she’s seen in her dreams? About us, I mean?”

  Blaine shook his head. “I don’t know. But the rest of them defer to her, even Illarion.”

  “I’m worried more about Pollard than the performers,” Verran said. “I don’t like the idea that there are spies on the lookout for us. Do you think Pollard’s got someone at the lyceum?”

  Blaine shrugged. “There’s no way to tell if the lyceum even survived the Great Fire until we get there. I don’t underestimate Pollard. Then again, if the mages are still alive, it may not be that easy for us to get in, let alone one of Pollard’s assassins.”

  “Unless he sends a former mage,” Kestel replied.

  There was no answer to that, so they walked slowly back toward the fire, where the others were giving Kata their tankards for some of the thick, bitter fet that would jolt them toward wakefulness. There was a battered pot on the coals, and Blaine smelled porridge and wild berries. With Piran and Desya on watch, the others sat down around the fire to eat.

  Even Zaryae had rejoined the group. She said nothing, but from beneath the dark hair that fell into her eyes, she watched Blaine with disconcerting intensity.

  “The gods are with us,” Illarion said in a hearty voice. “No magic storms last night.” Although the others had changed out of their elaborate performance costumes, Illarion was still dressed all in black, with his tall hat perched atop his head.

  “And no monsters,” Borya added. He grinned and his catlike eyes flashed. “Perhaps our new companions are favored.”

  “Not yet favored, except with the gods’ curiosity,” Zaryae said, and her voice, though quiet, drew the others’ attention. Although Zaryae was a young woman in her twenties, the look in her dark eyes suggested wisdom and suffering far beyond her years.

  Verran sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I traveled with a few caravans and faires before I went to Velant. Some of them had… unusual people,” he said with a nod toward the twins and their catlike eyes, “people with odd skills,” he added, glancing toward Illarion, “and jugglers, musicians, and acrobats. But they were motley groups.” He leveled another look at Illarion. “The five of you are more like a family.”

  Illarion paused for a moment, then nodded. “Kata and Zaryae are nieces. Borya and Desya are grandsons. We were once a group of twenty, with my brothers and sisters and our families.” His eyes took on a
haunted look. “The changes that the wild magic worked on our group were cruel. Three of our group died in the Great Fire. Twelve of the others fell to sickness, or injuries, or madness in the months since then. Now we’re all that’s left.”

  “You’re Wanderers,” Verran said. “I’ve heard about your people, but I never expected to meet any.”

  “The Wanderers are the last of an old race from a homeland lost to legend,” Illarion replied, with a trace of the heavy accent that was thick in the twin’s voices. He reached up to adjust his tall black hat. “Our oldest stories tell of a great civilization that fell in a firestorm more than a thousand years ago. Since that time, our people have roamed at will with their herds and wagons, moving with the seasons and going where they found good water and plentiful food.