“So we’re preparing to move out,” the Emperor-elect says. “I will face my brother across the Wastes. The Losians have the advantage on home turf, and hopefully we’ll be able to put on an equal show to convince my brother to engage in genuine parley.”
“We may be able to hold out against the troops marching this way,” I say, picking through the sherds of blue-black glass. “But if the reports of Zostar’s shadow warriors hold even half-truths, we won’t stand a chance. We must investigate the Losian weapons cache.”
“Let us hope that it has been kept safer than its Aphorain counterpart,” Nisai says.
“And,” I add, “time is of the essence.” I snap my fingers, and a servant steps forward. I take the map from them and spread it across the table. “The Losian cache is ever-so-conveniently located within Zostar’s likely warpath. We must arrive ahead of his forces, or our only chance will be burned out quicker than cheap incense.”
Copperlocks gnaws at one of her delicate fingernails, these days ragged to the quicks. “It’s almost as if it were a divine plan. Doskai leading us into the path of destruction.”
Destruction. A notion skirts around the fringes of my thoughts. By the Primordial’s grace…
“Divine or otherwise, if we don’t leave soon, we’re all going to the sky. Your Highness, I’ll set out with the others imminently. I’m sure the province army will have birds or some way for me to get word back to you.”
“No need. I’ll be coming with you. The Losians are set to depart in the morning.”
“Large forces move slowly,” I counter.
“Not this one. The Losian army hasn’t needed to deploy since the Empire was founded. But that doesn’t mean they haven’t been ready.”
Kip rarely smiles. But at Nisai’s words, she practically beams.
We departed the river docks of Los in a flotilla of serpent boats.
The breeze angling in from the clifftops was light, warm and scented with salt and frangipani. Anyone could be forgiven for thinking we were off on a pleasure trip if it weren’t for the fact that the passengers were soldiers and the cargo was weaponry and marching rations. Copperlocks passes the time with her scrolls, and this time Rakel joins her. It’s a small joy in all the chaos to see her reading. Amber and Lostras engage in a delightful cultural exchange – swapping the crudest jokes from their respective provinces late into the night, some of them so brazen or debauched that even I found my cheeks warm.
Between the Losian Province Commander, the Eraz and the three former imperial wives, the decision was made to take the river to the Great Bend, the northern entrance to the Wastes. The Regent’s outfit were predominantly on foot. If we could get into position first, they would be forced to march across the Wastes, hopefully tiring them further before a potential clash.
Our boat, only lightly loaded and faster than the others, sees us disembarking ahead of the main force. As we set out, I’m satisfied by the symmetry from when we first journeyed to the Sanctuary together, except for the replacement of the Prince with Copperlocks in our troupe of intrepid travelers. His Highness stayed with the main group – it’s safer with an army surrounding him as he continues to strategize with the Province leaders for the coming stand-off between the forces.
Daprul, the Losian member of the Council of Five, was painstakingly accurate with map instructions to her Province’s ancient temple site. I have no doubt that it is the boon of local knowledge that sees us directly to the sacred site on the edge of the Wastes.
But it’s not what I had been expecting, given the reports from the others on the appearance of the Aphorain cache. Where I’d imagined an archaic temple, perhaps with a column or two toppled, a crumbling of the outer stone, it’s nothing grander than several plinths covered in sand and scree.
“We’re about to lose the sun,” I observe. “We should decide on our camp for the night.”
We climb an outcrop above the plains to find the Wastes laid out before us. Thankfully, the wind is blowing the right way to prevent the sulphur stench from overwhelming us. Even so, the girl rides with a cloth tied over her face, and I’m tempted to do the same now that we’ve paused. Lord Amber and the Losian Ranger grimace through it.
“I doubt we’ll find a more suitable place to camp between here and there.”
“Aye,” Lostras agrees as she sets about gathering scant fuel for a fire.
I see to our mounts while the sunset deepens towards dusk. On the horizon, what must only be two or three days’ ride along the southern edge of the Wastes, dots of orange light appear. Closer still, pinpricks glow in the night, no doubt from scouting parties. I stop, frozen in my tracks. The sheer size of the force out in the dark indicates Zostar and the Regent have been far more proficient at recruitment than even I’d anticipated. I’d venture half of those gathered around the fires are Rangers and Trelian mercenaries hired with funds from the imperial coffers. That doesn’t change the fact that they outnumber the force we’ve brought here. By magnitudes.
I twist my silver ring around my finger. The Losians know this terrain, but even so, their chance of prevailing is slim. And that’s before the reports that Zostar has bent a contingent of Children of Doskai to his will are factored into the odds.
It takes more time than I’d care to admit to shake off my brooding.
Our own fire is established by the time I return. The others are eating their trail rations in silence. I decline mine. The sight of the gathering army has murdered my appetite.
“A lot of your people down there, Lostras.”
She perks up at that. “Losian banners? They’ve made good time, then.”
“Rangers.”
Her shoulders slump. “The Wastes will take care of at least some of them.”
“How so?” Rakel asks.
“They confuse people. Turn them around.”
“They get lost?”
“Something like that.” Her eyes are wide, the whites shining in the firelight.
I raise an eyebrow. “Come now. It doesn’t take a perfumer’s nose to sniff out that you’re not telling us something.”
She tosses the dregs of her cup of kormak on to the coals. It hisses into steam that smells like charred cinnamon bark. When it’s dissipated, she regards me, wild eyes flattening once again into her usual level stare.
“The Wastes are haunted.”
I sputter my own kormak. Kip? Believe in ghosts? It’s almost as ludicrous as the assertion itself.
She shakes her head and unsheathes her sword, taking a handheld whetstone to it with an intensity no doubt intended to shut me out. But she’s not getting away with this that easily.
“Do explain.”
“Tell us, Kip,” Rakel chimes in.
“My father met a man who’d made it out once. A soldier. Not some kid who still reeks of his naming day incense, a veteran. He said the place itself was overpowering.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I drawl. If jokes were people, there would be enough about the rotten-egg stench of the Waste’s sulphur pools to populate a city.
“You want to hear this or not?”
I hold up my hands. “My apologies. Please, go on.”
“The land itself is a maze, twisted rock and geysers and steam vents forcing you to detour and backtrack until you don’t know your nose from your arse. And even if those don’t get you, it’s full of things that want to kill you. Flesh-eating insects. Tarantulas. Snakes.”
She almost spits the last. Like their very existence is a personal insult.
I make a mental note to ask her about that one day.
“So, should we investigate this cache?”
“Now?” The wild look returns to the Losian’s eyes. “In the dark? You should wait until morning.”
I look pointedly to the southeast, where Zostar’s army has made their own camp. “We can light torches. Surely time is of the essence, Lostras.”
The Losian lifts her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “If you’d lik
e to go searching for ancient weapons against the Lost God when his moon is about to rise over an allegedly haunted battlefield, be my guest.”
“Only if you’d like to go and ask that army to spend tomorrow having picnics rather than bearing down on us and half the population of your Province with their magical doom soldiers,” Rakel says as she assembles a light jar and ignites it with a burning stick from the fire.
Nobody else argues with that. Because there simply is no plausible denial.
We spread out and start searching the site.
“Over here,” Copperlocks calls. “Help me with this slab.”
Barden complies, levering his considerable bulk against the stone. It doesn’t budge. “Kip, help us, would you?”
The Losian glares at him like he’d asked her to shove her hand into a fire.
“Please, Kip.”
“We pledge to protect you against any pesky ghosts,” I add.
She throws up her hands but moves alongside Barden. They heave in unison, and the slab starts to move aside with an ear-grating rumble.
We each look to the other in turn.
Finally, Rakel steps forward and shines the light jar into the maw of the temple’s underground cavern. The light reveals a stone staircase descending into blackness. One wouldn’t exactly call it the most inviting of entryways.
“Through,” Rakel mutters, her foot already on the first step.
“Sorry, petal?”
“Nothing,” she snaps, and follows Lord Amber’s lead into the ground.
Copperlocks pauses at the entrance. Then Rakel’s voice comes echoing to the surface: “It’s safe … at least it seems that way.”
“I’ll stay on guard up here.” Kip says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Not concerned for the dangers we may face down there?”
“She just said it was safe, didn’t she? And you can look after yourself.”
I let it drop and begin down the stone stairs. Great stone blocks line a tunnel that opens out into a low-ceilinged cavern. It’s bright, and getting brighter as Rakel lights the sconces evenly spaced along the walls, laid with something combustible and so desiccated over the centuries that the flames leap high as soon as the burning yeb balm touches them.
The light dances across the stone and reflects back from dozens of long boxes lined up in rows on the cavern’s floor. They’re about three feet wide and tall and as long as a … tall person. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what they are.
“Coffins,” Rakel breathes.
Copperlocks runs a hand over one, blowing ancient dust from its surface. She coughs delicately. “Sarcophagi, technically. There’s writing carved into the surface. Pre-imperial again.”
“Looks like the same blue-black glass as the Aphorain cache,” Rakel muses. “Guess we’re in the right place, now we just need to find the weapons.”
“There are other caverns,” I observe. “If we spread out, we’ll be able to cover more ground.”
But there’s nothing but rows and rows of the blue-black glass caskets.
Asmudtagian glass.
“I’m loath to be morbid,” I begin. “But I expect we should look inside.”
Copperlocks nods enthusiastically. “I’ve heard of places beyond the Empire where they bury their dead with weapons to help them battle their way to the afterlife.”
It takes a group effort, but between Lord Amber, Rakel and me, we manage to shift the slab of Asmudtagian glass so the casket is halfway open.
Rakel wrinkles her nose. “I’ve smelled something like that once before. But it was from a flower. Vanilla.”
Inside, a desiccated body, arms folded over its chest, stares hollowly up at us. Its skin is preserved but blackened and stretched over the skeleton, head bare of hair or adornment. On closer investigation, its robe seems to be encrusted with the last remains of crumbling feathers.
There’s no doubt it’s Asmudtagian. And I can only think of one reason why these bodies were not sent to the sky upon their death: those left behind didn’t think they would be welcome there.
Which means…
By the Primordial’s grace, could this get any worse?
A superior army bearing down upon us. Zostar’s reported ability to bend Children of Doskai to his whims. And the only hope we had to combat such a threat turns out to be an ancient burial site of those who lost their lives the last time we faced such an enemy.
This. This is what happens when the Order declines over the generations. When we’ve been caught up in politics and our own dogmatic squabbling about how best to maintain balance, the world has been tilting around us.
It shouldn’t have been like this. It should have been averted. I should have found a way to prevent this.
A cold, sickly feeling worms its insidious way into my core. I clamp my eyes shut and bow my head. But there’s no way to swallow down the rising truth.
I’ve failed.
Sephine’s voice pierces my heart. We’ll one day find our salvation in Asmudtagian destruction.
I’ve failed, and now there’s only one last thing to try to bring the world back into equilibrium. An extreme measure. One that only the audacious or hopeless would entertain.
There’s no other choice.
While the others are still intent on seeking another cavern for their cache of ancient weapons, I retrace my path up the steps to the surface.
“Find anything?” the Losian former Ranger asks when I reach where she guards the tomb’s entrance.
“Nothing of substance. Lostras, do me a favour? Give this to Rakel?” I hand her one of my camel’s saddlebags. There’s an array of ingredients in there, restorative and destructive. Who knows what she’ll come up against when I’m gone, and I’m going to need supplies of an entirely different ilk. “And inform his Highness I’ve some pressing business “I’m not your errand girl,” she huffs.
“Oh, go on, be a love, won’t you? Just this once? And while I’ve got you, who captains the fastest of those serpent boats that got us here?”
“Iza,” she says. “Captain Iza.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just taking a precaution. You know me, ever vigilant. I’d dared to think that’s what you liked about me.”
“Never once said I liked you.”
“Oh,” I say, eyes wide and innocent. “My mistake.”
“No. And yes. I almost thought I did like you for a while there. But now? Going gets tough and off you slink.” She waves her hand for me to get out of her sight, her lip curled in derision. “Better get skulking then.”
I allow myself a tired sigh. I wished I’d been able to get to know her better. I’d venture we’d be famously compatible under different circumstances.
Alas, this is how it must be.
CHAPTER 33
RAKEL
The one good thing about descending into a possibly haunted underground cavern in the middle of the night is that at least the rotten-egg smell of the Wastes is slightly less potent down here. Though that’s possibly because of the dry-sweet scent of decay as much as anything. I try not to think about it too hard.
Ami kneels beside one of the blue-black glass coffins. She licks her thumb and rubs at a particularly stubborn section of dust. “Bring some light, would you?”
I do as she asks, hovering the flame above the casket. Where the dust has been cleared, the surface gleams, still keeping a fine polish after what Ami says could be close to a thousand turns. It’s carved with flowers and a series of symbols I don’t recognize. Guess that must be pre-Imperial.
“What’s it say?”
“It’s difficult to translate directly,” Ami muses.
“In essence, then.”
She trails a finger beneath the first line.
Here lies Masgib, sister to Kaiseth, first Keeper of Shadows.
Who gave her life in service of the Primordial’s equilibrium
May her soul find sanctuary in Asmudtag’s eternal embrace.
I frown. “So, this is literally just a tomb?”
She gnaws on a fingernail. “Perhaps ‘weapon’ somehow get misconstrued over the generations. We could be missing an etymology or translation detail. Perhaps the other sarcophagi reveal more?”
She stands and walks to the next casket, dusting it off with her palm before beginning to read:
Here lies Alodai, sister to Kaiseth, first Keeper of Shadows. Who gave her life in service of the Primordial’s equilibrium May her soul find sanctuary in Asmudtag’s eternal embrace.
She moves further down the line of coffins.
Here lies Yaznesh, sister to Kaiseth, first Keeper of Shadows. Who gave her life in service of the Primordial’s equilibrium May her soul find sanctuary in Asmudtag’s eternal embrace.
“How many sisters did this Kaiseth have?” I grumble.
Ami gives an almost-smile at that. “I don’t expect it’s meant literally. It’s probably a recognition of lineage.”
“Then why does it say that? Wasn’t Kaiseth the first Scent Keeper? Isn’t that a bit of a weird coincidence?”
She rocks back on to her heels. “That’s what all the histories say. Perhaps there’s something further in the Order’s records that could shed light. Any insight, Luz?”
There’s no answer. I peer into the dark behind us, but beyond where Barden holds another light jar aloft, there’s nobody there. He shrugs. “She probably went to check in with Kip to make sure we still have time before Zostar’s army close in.”
Ami nods. “Let’s investigate a few more of the sarcophagi, make sure the pattern holds.”
We do. And it does.
Here lies Esis, sister to Kaiseth, first Keeper of Shadows. Here lies Nurroth, sister to Kaiseth… Here lies Praikai…
Ami shakes her head. “I can’t deduce anything further from this. Time to see what Luz makes of it.”
Up on the surface, Kip stands where we left her, her formidable frame silhouetted against the first rays of dawn.
“Where in the sixth hell is Luz?” I ask.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
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