“Thanks,” I muttered. I ate slowly, then before anyone could discover me, I left.
I wandered aimlessly through the Hall. The scroll was still tucked in my robes, clawing at my mind, but for some reason, I didn’t want to look. I ended up in the camel yard. I found Yma and gave her a friendly scratch around the eyes. She looked bored.
“Soon,” I told her. “We’ll be back in the desert soon.” And away from the thing at the heart of Shyandar.
She huffed impatiently.
The desert. I should track down Breta, find out what had happened with that Craftsquarter assignment. Would they be in the Task Hall? Maybe back in their rooms? How long ago was that, anyway? Something told me I might be missing a day or two.
I shuffled back to the third’s sleeping quarters.
“Breta?” I called from the common area.
There was no answer. I peeked through her curtain. She wasn’t there. I went around to the other curtains. All empty.
I sighed. They must be having an important meeting in the Task Hall. Without me.
That rankled. It was my expedition. If I found Koryn had stuck his jealous talons into this after all, I would call him out. I thought of hurrying there now, bursting in on them, just as they were about to make an important decision without me.
What’s going on here? Someone explain this to me. I want a detailed account of everything I missed, starting with . . .
I sighed. That sounded exhausting. Instead I limped into my own room. It was time. Time to face the High Elder’s final, parting blow. At least I knew I had some privacy.
I lit my candle pot and perched it on top of the small wooden chest. Then I used the slanted edge like a reading table. Carefully, so as not to crack the old parchment, I began to unroll it.
I tensed as I read the heading scrawled along the outer edge: The Chronicles of the Last Age and the Ending of Kayr, set down by Andari ab’Andala, named Al’kah, first of the Age of Exile. It was numbered 51.
I brought a hand to my face. A tremor ran through me. It wasn’t the exact scroll I had ruined as a boy, but another like it, belonging to the same Chronicles. For a moment, I wondered if there was a double meaning here, a warning.
What was the High Elder trying to say? And why had he given this to me?
There was only one way to find out. I bent to read.
Andari ab’Andala was the first Al’kah of the Exile. It was he who’d rallied the scattered remnants of the Kyr’amanu in the dark days after the fall of Kayr. His was the vision of the Avanir, given to him by the Chorah’dyn herself. And this—this was our most vital narrative. Our link from the Old Lands to now.
My heart was pounding as I unfurled the scroll. It was difficult to read; it had been a long time, and I had to murmur the words aloud, sounding them as I went, trying to decipher the archaic characters. But slowly, the text took shape.
There had been a battle. An uprising? “The Elders,” I read, murmuring the words aloud, “had shown their willingness towards brutality—not for the sake of the people, but for their own empire of illusion. Their ruthlessness was met with defiance. Another war was coming—not against the Aeth or the pirate lords of Man’tur, but against their own people. Kayr turned against Kayr.”
I frowned at the unflattering picture. Uprisings and brutality? Rebellion? Ruthlessness from the Elders of Kayr? What was the High Elder trying to prove?
I continued: “What exactly they conferred on in their hidden meetings in the Holy Palace of Ashianys, no one can say with certainty. Those doors were locked, and the dark secrets therein died with them. But rumours began through the mouths of the Acolytes of Ytyr, and spread to us, the Guardians.”
As I read, I learned that unbound ytyri had been rediscovered in the Aethen mountains, which meant the ability to make new ytyri devices—a thing which hadn’t been possible, it seemed, for hundreds of years. The barest rumours, they feared, could unbalance the power of Kayr.
They met in councils, not just alone, but with the Circle, of which Andari had been a part. Andari ab’Andala, not yet Al’kah, but merely a Guardian Lord of no great influence in the Circle, recalled the long discussions, the strategies of how best to use the newly discovered ytyri, and through it all, the growing dread that something wasn’t right. A rising influence. But who?
He listed the members of both councils, as well as their attendants. Amongst the Elders, Illynar ab’Etashnu—why did that name sound so familiar?—as well as Parishu ab’Pyrana, Lashima sai’Elisa . . . I began to skim. Amongst the attendants were given single names, some shortened to show their lower place. Except one “for whom no name was given,” I read, “only a title, an honorific seeming vastly out of place, for he was called E’tuah.”
I stopped, my lips hovering over the familiar name. I blinked. I rubbed my eyes and looked again.
E’tuah—
And again: E’tuah—
My heart shrivelled from the truth. I covered my face. Yet the images returned: a dark and monstrous cavern, flooded with brilliance. A painted hall . . .
Not all answers are a matter of words.
A painted hall, splashed red with painted blood. Kyrada dying, pierced by the knife of the king he had once served. The Deathless King.
Deathless. Old. Undying.
E’tuah.
I groaned, my stomach churning with horror. I didn’t want to keep reading. Yet my eyes were dragged back to the script.
“By those who knew him, he was called E’tuah—as if he were an honoured lord amongst the rulers of Kayr, and not, in truth, a dangerous spectre to be cursed and driven away. I suspected him from the beginning, yet said nothing. It was much later that I learned the full truth, to my dismay, and it was even more horrible than I feared.
“He appeared in shadows, speaking to a select few of the Circle and the Council, whispering suggestions to the High Elder and resurrecting old and forbidden uses of ytyri—dark uses, methods of binding that were previously unknown, unmatched in ferocity and depravity, creating a new standard of warfare that spread terror at the very mention of Kayr: methods designed to ensure total victory in war.
“But at what cost was that victory? By the time the rumours grew, I was helpless to stop the corruption now festering at the heart of Kayr. For now we heard the return of a name, long since passed from the lips of people, enduring only in stories of the ancient past and in nightmares whispered to the dark: the name Shatayeth an-E’tuah—falsely honoured—Last of the Undying, as some still called the Deathless King of old. Once the enemy of people, the betrayer of Kyrada, who ended his own race, now a conqueror in disguise, steering us inexorably toward our ruin.”
With that, the 51st scroll of ab’Andala’s Chronicles ended.
I sat there a long time, huddled over the parchment, staring and seeing nothing. The High Elder’s meaning was painfully clear. He had known. He had always known. Probably since the name E’tuah had first slipped from my foolish tongue. And what could he say? That the stranger in the desert was none other than Shatayeth, Last of the Undying?
I would never have believed him. Even this scroll wouldn’t have convinced me. Not unless I’d seen him with my own eyes. E’tuah striding those passages like a lord of the ancient halls, E’tuah gazing on the painted battles, E’tuah speaking of his people: once they were many—and now they are gone.
A lesser race. That’s what he’d called us.
I snapped the scroll shut and crushed it in my fist. Then, with trembling hands, I held it over the candle. The old parchment crackled for a moment in protest, then burst into flame.
I dropped it to the stone floor, and within moments the dusty scroll lay in ashes.
I knelt there, staring at the remains of the priceless gift entrusted to me. Why had I done it? I was furious and cold with fear. No one could know. No one could ever know. Not Tala, not Kulnethar. No one.
Trembling, I stood and fetched the chamber pot by the door, then swept the ashes together and dumped them into t
he pot.
Lies.
I shuddered and began to pace.
Lies.
But which ones, and from whom? I’d seen Polityr with my own eyes! How could I turn away from that? How could I pretend it wasn’t real?
Yet knowing the truth about E’tuah, how could I trust anything he said?
You will find him. You will take the sword of Guardians, and—as you have sworn . . .
I clutched my keshu with new understanding. The High Elder had known I’d never believe it, not without seeing E’tuah for myself. Which wouldn’t have happened until I confronted him. Which I might never have done without this oath heavy upon me.
But did he really expect . . . ? Did he honestly believe I could defeat him?
Yl’avah’s blasted might, it was cruel, this tantalizing hope. That the High Elder had actually believed in me. That he’d sent me to the Guardians, for this. That he’d waited all these years, withholding the Sending stone, for this. So I could face E’tuah one day—so I could face Shatayeth himself!—and end him.
I almost laughed. It was foolish, impossible, hopelessly arrogant. So why the surge of desire? I could do it. I could do it. What did I need him for? He claimed to be for us, but how could I believe anything he said? He was a liar and a danger to our people, and I didn’t need him. I could learn the truth of the Avanir myself.
Better to end him. For the safety of the expedition. For my own safety, and Tala’s, so no one could ever trace what we were doing back to him.
Yes.
I took a deep breath, fear and excitement coursing through me. I reached for the Sending stone—not to use it. Not yet, at least. Not until I had a plan.
And I felt nothing. My pockets were empty. No stone. Nothing.
I sucked in a breath. I dropped to my knees, tossing aside blankets and pillows, scrabbling across the floor. I threw open the chest. Our meagre possessions scattered: water skins, belts, head wraps, tinderbox, tools. I checked every fold of cloth, every crevice.
Tala.
What had she done?
Panic gripped me. No, she wouldn’t. Would she? No. No, not Tala. Not after what happened. Not . . .
Except I’d never explained. I’d left her clueless. And the Guardian in her—with the expedition so near . . .
I surged to my feet. I had to find her. Now.
I stumbled through the corridors, bursting into the common hall. It was full of Guardians at evening meal. I scanned the tables. First, second, third—yes, there was my kiyah, and I noticed them turning to look at me. Breta’s face lit up.
“Vanya!” she shouted across the room.
I ignored her. The fourth. Where was the fourth? There—
I saw Jin’sal and Antaru and the others, but no Tala. I hurried over to them. I felt a stir in the hall. Everyone was turning to look at me, and a murmur ran through the tables. What were they saying about me now?
“Tala!” I demanded as soon as I reached the fourth. “Where is Tala?”
Jin’sal raised a brow. “I thought she was with you.”
“Would I be asking then?” I snapped. “What did she say? Tell me exactly what she said.”
Jin’sal rose, smiling as he steered me away. “Ishvandu, Tala is more than capable of handling herself.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “You’re making a scene. There are rumours. Please don’t feed them more than necessary.”
“What rumours?”
“That you finally snapped. That you attacked her with your own keshu.”
“What?” I cried, aghast.
“Rumours. They’ll die down soon enough, unless you make things worse before they’re better.”
“But surely the Circle doesn’t—”
“Ishvandu.” He eyed me, resting both hands on my shoulders, still smiling. “Do yourself a favour, go sit down with your kiyah and enjoy a quiet meal looking perfectly normal. Is that too hard to ask?”
I spun away and marched from the hall.
Where would she be? Where else would she go, if not back to our rooms?
Unless . . .
Every Guardian was assigned their own private sleeping chamber, whether they used it or not. I hurried towards the fourth’s common area. It was getting dark and I was thankful for the shadows. The last thing I needed was for Umaala to find me and pounce on me now.
I burst into the rooms, slapped aside her curtain—and then I saw her.
She was propped against the wall. Her eyes were closed. Her body was limp.
I gave a strangled cry, stumbling towards her, calling her name. The room seemed to stretch. My feet dragged across the ground.
“Tala . . . Tala . . .”
I fell against her, clutching her face, her hands, touching her lips.
She was unresponsive. I seized her wrist, desperately feeling for her pulse. I leaned close. My face was hot with tears. No. Yl’avah’s might, no.
Shaking, I pressed my cheek to her mouth. Nothing. Nothing.
“Tala!” I screamed.
She breathed. Or had she? Had I only imaged it? I shook her.
“Oh, Tala. Come on, Tala. Don’t do this. Don’t . . . don’t . . .”
I noticed a pulsing glow. Her hand had shifted. She was holding the Sending stone. She was using it, right now. And the stone—pulsing.
A heartbeat. It was echoing her heartbeat.
I sagged in relief. Yes. I could see she was breathing. It was faint, but if I wasn’t in such a sand-blasted panic, I’d have noticed sooner.
“Get out!” I cried. “Get out of there. Do you hear me, Tala? It’s . . . it’s . . .”
What could I do? I wrapped my hand over hers, the stone pulsing in my grasp. If Tala could do this, then so could I.
Tala.
I plunged into the Unseen.
I ripped towards her, borne by my own desperation. Yl’avah’s might, if he hurt her . . . !
Sand whipped across my face. I staggered into darkness and dust, the wind howling around me.
“Tala!”
A figure appeared. “Vanya?”
“Tala!”
She leapt towards me. A knife glittered in her hand. A knife? And was that a cut on her face? She grabbed me, pulling me into stance beside her.
“Tala, what’s going on? You shouldn’t be here!”
“Blasted little rat.” She turned on the spot, crouched in ready stance. “I had him. I almost had him.”
“Tala—”
“Vanya, shut it.” She pointed the knife at me. “I’ll deal with you later. Shit!”
She wiped her mouth, and I noticed blood on the back of her hand. She was shaking. She kept turning, and turning.
“Tala, how did you get a knife through the stone?”
“Him,” she said like a curse.
I swallowed. “Tala, let’s go.”
She screamed in frustration. I’d never seen her so angry. Her chest was heaving up and down. “Sands take him, that wretch. That . . . that . . .”
Briefly I considered grabbing her and forcing us both back through the stone, but then I looked at the glittering knife and decided otherwise.
“Tala,” I said through the storm. “What happened?”
She shot me a look. “Your friend and I had a little . . . disagreement.”
“I can see that. Tala, we can’t stay here. There’s nothing we can do without our keshu. Come back.” I paused. “Please.”
She screamed again and slammed the knife into the sand. Then with a wink, she was gone.
I followed. It was easier this time, dipping in so briefly. And maybe being together changed it. I could chase after her through the Unseen, slipping past the undulating, alien landscape.
Then we woke together in her room.
“Vanya, you idiot!” she cried, the moment we gasped back to life. She struck a fist into my chest, hammering it with bruising painfulness. “How could you? How could you? Do you know who that was? Do you have any idea?”
She struck me again, and again.
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“Stop!” I tried to say. “Tala, stop!”
Her chest heaved, sobbing, as she lashed out. Instead of trying to defend myself, I threw my arms around her, holding as tight as I could.
I was going to kill him. I was going to kill him for this.
Tala finally collapsed into me, the strength running out of her like a broken dam. She clutched my robes. She was shaking. Furious or terrified—I couldn’t tell.
“Yl’avah’s blasted might,” she gasped. “How could you?”
“Tala, I didn’t know.”
“Shit, you didn’t! How could you not? How could you not?”
“I only just found out. I didn’t want to believe it. I was going to tell you, but . . .”
“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice was hard against my ear. A coldness that didn’t sound like her. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Ishvandu. Don’t you dare.”
I fell silent. We clutched each other in a strange embrace, full of worry and relief and anger. Then finally, she drew back. Her face was splotchy with tears, but she had calmed herself.
“I’m going to kill him,” I said. “Whatever he did to you—”
“No.”
I stared at her. “No?”
“You will do no such thing, Ishvandu ab’Admundi. You will stay away from him.”
“But Tala, you know. You saw him. I can’t just let—”
“Yes, you can.”
“But with my keshu . . .” I swallowed. “With both of ours. Together.”
“No.” Her voice was hard. “Trust me, Vanya, you’re not fast enough.”
“So what then?” I felt a surge of helpless anger. “Ignore him? Pretend he’s not out there? We can’t just put our heads in the sand! Is that what a Guardian would do?”
“Of course not!” she cried, flinging her hands in the air. “But it’s too late for that, isn’t it? Yl’avah’s might, how could you not have seen?”
I shook my head. “I swear Tala, I had no idea.”
“Well, you do now.” She sighed, deflating as the reality of it came crashing over her. “It’s over. Yl’avah save us, we have to talk to Umaala. We have to call off the whole expedition.”
“No!” I cried, gripping her arms. “No. We . . . we can’t.”
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