The Light of All That Falls, page 16
Ordan finally stopped. To Caeden’s shock, the Shalis’s arms were trembling.
He turned, and Caeden recoiled.
Ordan’s expression, as always, had barely changed. But there was something now—something furious and terribly, terribly sad—that emanated from him like a physical force. From the corner of his eye, Caeden could see Alchesh taking a hesitant step back.
“Because it has fallen to me to do so,” said Ordan. His voice was calm but even so, that heavy grief remained in the air. “Because after this long, I cannot risk them coming back. I cannot risk them becoming koth.”
“I don’t understand,” said Caeden, his voice almost a whisper. He didn’t recognize the word.
Ordan paused, then hung his head.
“They have been in Markaathan, Tal’kamar.” He finally looked across at Caeden, almost defiant now. “That is where we go when we die. The Darklands, you call it. And the Forge… the Forge pulls us back here again. Or more precisely, it forces our link to the Darklands to push us back here.”
Caeden stared at him, trying to process the words. The Darklands. The fate that Andrael feared El was trying to unleash upon the world. He knew it was real—El Himself had said that it was where Nethgalla had originated, and Alaris had spoken of it as well.
It was a place of nothing but terror and pain, if what others had said was to be believed.
“I am sorry,” he said roughly. “But surely that means severing their link now will just strand them there?”
“Perhaps. We do not know.” Ordan looked to the side. “Our origins—how we came to be this way—are a mystery to us. Some of us believed that we were from the Darklands originally, and that our time spent here was nothing but a reprieve from that place. Some thought that using the Sever would mean nothingness, an end. Others—those who believe in Dreth—considered that it might be a chance to move on to somewhere else. Somewhere better.” He shook his head, red-scaled body swaying slightly from side to side as he balanced on his thick tail. “It does not matter. All agreed that longer than a day there, and the risk of what may come back—something mad, something corrupt—was too great. That is why we never strayed far from Tereth Kal without Travel Stones. Without a way to swiftly return.”
Caeden frowned. “But rebirth takes several months.”
“Rebirth takes minutes, Tal’kamar,” Ordan corrected. “The body forms, and mind and soul are restored in an instant. The months are for the memories. We lie here, submersed, and it works away the worst of what we have experienced. Never all—but enough to function. Enough to control ourselves once again.” He shook his head. “Longer than a day, and the Waters would never be enough. I cannot imagine what a thousand years would have wrought on their minds.”
Caeden felt the blood drain from his face as Ordan elaborated. He sat on the ground abruptly, knees weak.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered.
“That is no excuse,” replied Ordan.
He turned back to his task.
Caeden and Alchesh watched silently now as Ordan picked out each scale solemnly, recognizing it, naming its owner before reverently touching a Sever to it. Each one crumbled into nothing, dissipating like smoke.
Eventually, finally, only one medallion remained. A golden eagle, wings spread wide. Ordan picked it up, examining it; Caeden stiffened where he sat, heart suddenly in his throat.
Ordan put the Sever back on its shelf and slithered over to Caeden and Alchesh.
“You understand what Tal’kamar is asking of you?” he asked Alchesh abruptly.
Alchesh started, evidently not having expected to be addressed. “I believe so.”
“And he told you that it may destroy you?”
Alchesh coughed, glancing across at Caeden with a raised eyebrow. “He may have… skimmed over that particular part. But I trust him.”
“It is not about trust.” Ordan’s words were reproachful. “I can connect you to the Forge, but no one can tell you the consequences. You may become like Tal’kamar—bound to be reborn in a different body whenever you die. Or you could become like the Shalis, bound to the Darklands but able to be restored. You could become Shalis in truth, for all I know.”
“Very funny,” said Alchesh quickly, a nervous smile on his face. It faded as he watched Ordan. “That was meant to be funny. Right?”
“The last is unlikely,” conceded Ordan cheerlessly. “But it is illustrative. I do not know the consequences. Nor does Tal’kamar, no matter what he has told you. It may be that you will become something entirely different—something new. Stronger. Weaker. Better. Worse. There is no way to tell before it is attempted.”
There was silence; Alchesh glanced up, seeing Caeden watching him intently.
“I am going to need a few seconds,” he said drily.
Caeden gave a small smile, hearing Alchesh’s answer in his voice. The man was nothing if not brave.
Ordan sighed, then—clearly having heard the answer, too—guided Alchesh over to the wall. “Place your hand here,” he instructed, indicating a flat, smoothly shining section of crystal to the left of the burning Essence.
Alchesh did so, looking calm. A hundred times more confident than Caeden felt. Cyr had theorized more on the Forge than on any other Vessel in existence—they all had—and connecting Alchesh to it should allow him unfettered use of kan.
But ultimately, that was all they had. Theories.
“You should be able to see kan now—in particular, the threads that tie Tal’kamar and me to this device,” said Ordan. “They are hardened kan, unbreakable except by kan made before it—kan that was made alongside the device itself. When I activate the endpoint you will see the beginnings of other threads, ones which are loose. You must reach out and take one of these, drawing it into yourself. That will connect you to the Forge.”
Alchesh’s brow was furrowed, beads of sweat standing out on it now. “Sounds simple enough,” he murmured through gritted teeth.
Ordan inclined his head, and flicked the Initiation endpoint.
Alchesh at first didn’t react, then suddenly stiffened as the first wave of kan swept through him. He didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound, but his eyes went wide and Caeden could see his knuckles turning white as his hand pressed hard against the crystal.
Caeden tried to watch the flows of kan as they entered his friend, but they were too fast, too complex. Alchesh himself was still quiet but Caeden could see the veins on his neck beginning to stand out, his face turning red with strain now. He wished, again, that he understood more of how the Forge worked. Was it a tie to the soul, as the Shalis seemed to believe? Or did it conserve the mind, copy it at the moment of death and store it away in full, ready to be delivered to a new body?
Caeden and Andrael and Cyr had favored that last theory; it was the one closest to their understanding of kan, the one that allowed them to explain how it could work. But it equally unsettled them. They each agreed that the body was an integral part of identity—so when they died, did they truly come back the same person? Did their always having the same Essence signature somehow indicate some sort of physical consistency, despite external appearances? Or did they come back slightly different, with memories simply recorded from someone else?
“He is taking too long,” said Ordan suddenly.
Caeden looked sharply at Alchesh. Several lines of kan were attached to him now, and yet more snaked toward him, affixing deep into his chest. Caeden frowned, moving around for a better view, and froze.
Alchesh’s eyes were wide and black, as if they would burst from darkness.
The waves of kan continued to flow, and Caeden stepped forward, concerned now.
“He’s taking as many strands as he can,” Ordan abruptly hissed, shock in his voice. Before Caeden could move he darted forward and ripped Alchesh away from the wall, throwing him forcefully back to the floor. The hum that had been building to a crescendo finally died away.
Caeden skidded to his knees beside Alchesh, wincing at a gash on the man’s brow where he had struck his head. He shook his friend by the shoulders, then carefully pried open his eyelids, examining his eyes worriedly. They had returned to clear brown, he was relieved to see, and Alchesh’s chest rose and fell rhythmically.
“What happened?” asked Caeden dazedly, eyeing Ordan’s looming figure with trepidation.
“He was greedy.” Ordan watched Alchesh’s motionless form warily. “He saw multiple connections and drew them all into himself.”
Caeden’s expression twisted. “Not greedy,” he corrected. “Loyal. Desperately, stupidly loyal. I have been frantic to know the truth, and Alchesh knows it.” He swallowed. “What will happen to him?”
Ordan contorted his serpentine body, hovering low to the ground above Alchesh, examining him.
“I do not know,” he admitted, a tension to his words that concerned Caeden. “He has taken on thirteen connections, Tal’kamar. Thirteen. I did not realize that was even possible.”
“And?”
“And he cannot be allowed to stay like this.” He gazed at Alchesh, considering. “A connection to the Darklands like that… it is too strong. We cannot risk something coming through. Escaping.”
Caeden stared at him, aghast. “I will not let you kill him.”
Ordan snorted. “A solution that shows how little you have grown, Tal’kamar.” He shook his head, clearly troubled. “We are beyond that now, anyway. If your friend dies, there is no telling what will happen to his connections. He may be reborn with them somewhere else, for all I know, in which case his death will merely inconvenience us. No—the only way to fix this is to use the last Sever on him, and quickly.” He rose and moved to the row of near-empty shelves, picking up the final medallion.
“What?” Caeden shook his head in confusion. “Isn’t that meant for you?”
“I will seek out Andrael instead.”
Caeden swallowed. “His will kill you. It is not designed for anything else.”
Ordan, to Caeden’s surprise, smiled at that, albeit sadly. “There is no point in life for the sake of living, Tal’kamar. My people are gone, and this fight was one we already knew that we could never outlive. Death is a journey I am willing to take, now.” He leaned in toward Alchesh, Sever outstretched.
“Wait!” Caeden held up his hand. “Just… wait.” He thought furiously; he’d come too far and risked too much to have it end like this. “You said that you were willing to do this, to link Alchesh, because you thought it was important that I believe. So just hold off, a little longer. A few weeks. Let him try and come to grips with this power and See into the future. If he shows even a hint of being dangerous, I will use the Sever on him myself. You have my word.”
Ordan hesitated.
“No.” He held up a hand as Caeden made to argue further. “Leave him here under my care. A month, Tal’kamar. Return in a month. By then he will either have Seen what you need or have grown too dangerous. Either way, he will be unlinked.”
“Easier to give me the Sever, Ordan,” said Caeden. “Gassandrid does not know you are alive, and he has my Trace. I can get away with coming here once, but twice…”
“You will find a way.” Ordan’s tone was firm.
Caeden scowled. “You do not trust me.”
Ordan shook his head.
“I still remember the man who feared what he would become,” he said softly. “If he had seen who you are now, Tal’kamar, he would have torn out his eyes from grief.”
On the ground, Alchesh stirred.
Caeden gaped at Ordan, then hurried back to his friend, kneeling beside him. Alchesh felt the pressure on his arm and gasped, flailing, hands wandering like a blind man’s. Caeden’s heart sank as he saw the other man’s eyes had turned entirely black once again.
“What can you see, Alchesh?” he asked urgently, fearing the worst.
Alchesh’s breathing was heavy. Panicked.
“I see everything,” he whispered.
Chapter 9
Davian grunted as he endured another violent shove from his guards, this time stumbling to his knees in the middle of the torch-lit, near-empty darkstone street.
He glanced down at his tender side, the slice in his shirt exposing it to the chill night air. The still-raw wound hadn’t broken open again from the sudden motion, thankfully. There hadn’t been an opportunity to heal himself further since the fight.
He gulped a lungful of air, and gingerly struggled back to his feet.
He had been abandoned, alone and wrapped in those kan-suppressing chains, for what felt like hours after they had dragged him out of the furious maelstrom of the Arena. The pain of his injury had dulled to a numb ache now, but the adrenaline of the fight had worn off long ago; by the time he had finally been fetched by this dozen-strong group of men in Telesthaesia, the onset of exhaustion had robbed him of his clarity of thought.
Which was a problem, because he was beginning to realize that wherever they were taking him right now, it wasn’t back to his cell in Tel’Tarthen.
He did his best to keep his balance as he was pushed unceremoniously along once again, feeling a vague sense of amusement despite the situation. His entire escort was making sure to stay to his side or behind him as they pushed him forward, nervous caution in every inch of their postures. They had clearly either seen or heard what had happened in the Arena.
Still, as he risked a glance behind at his captors—catching a glimpse of a dozen tense, glaring faces above glimmering black Telesthaesia before another almost-blow forced him onward—he suspected that there was more to their concern than just him. He could see it in the way they eyed the surrounding streets, this section of Ilshan Gathdel Teth distinctly abandoned save for Davian and his escort. Even their footsteps seemed eerily muted here.
After another minute they emerged into a long, narrow street that was bordered on one side by a massive spiked wall, their path turning sharply to follow alongside it. Davian stared at the structure, which stretched away in both directions for as far as he could see. It wasn’t made of darkstone like the rest of the city: instead the wall appeared constructed entirely of plates of steel, clean and smooth, the lower section lighting up the street as its mirror-polish finish reflected the glow of regularly placed torches. In an odd way, it reminded him somewhat of Fedris Idri. It was as unusual a sight as Davian had yet seen here.
“What is this?” he murmured.
As expected, the only response he received was yet another sharp shove.
A pair of figures soon resolved up ahead; from their change of stance when they saw Davian’s entourage, they had clearly been awaiting his arrival. The two men were standing in front of a large gate made from the same sleek steel as the wall.
Davian’s stomach twisted as he drew closer, recognizing the younger of the two.
“That will be far enough,” said the man Davian didn’t know as they approached. He had distinguished gray hair and a kindly, grandfatherly face, though his green eyes were sharp. “Release him from those bonds.”
One of Davian’s captors took a half step forward, his voice full of protest. “Lord Gellen, he just—”
“Do not make me ask again, son,” said the man—Gellen—quietly.
The guard swallowed, the scales of his Telesthaesia clicking against each other as he hurried to obey.
Davian fought to keep his face smooth as a soldier fumbled with his bonds. Once the rope finally slipped free he brought his hands up, stretching, flexing his fingers and rubbing out the sharp sensation as blood began to flow properly through them again.
Gellen glanced over Davian’s shoulder. “Go.”
Davian ignored the sound of the soldiers beating a rapid retreat, watching the man on the left. He was solidly built, perhaps ten years older than Davian, with reddish-blond hair. It was his skin that defined him, though: translucent white mixed with stark, raw red where sections of flesh had just… decayed. Sluiced off. Most noticeable was the palm-size patch on his cheek, though Davian knew that the man’s tunic hid long strips missing from his arms, too.
“Rethgar,” Davian said eventually, choosing to feign cheerfulness. It was the thing that would most annoy the man, from his experience. “A pleasure to see you again.”
Rethgar returned his gaze coldly, not responding.
Gellen glanced between them. “So you have met?” His gaze focused on Davian. “You are… brave, to try and provoke the escherii.” His emphasis indicated that ‘brave’ wasn’t really the word he should have chosen.
Escherii. The term was familiar; Davian dredged his mind, arriving at the memory he’d taken from Ilseth Tenvar. The one in which Ilseth had received the Portal Box and discussed the attacks he had orchestrated on the Gifted schools around Andarra.
Of course. He still didn’t know what it meant, but the context fit.
Davian forced his smile wider, though he could feel a tight ball of fury burning just beneath the surface.
For two straight days, this man had tortured him. It had been a vain attempt to break Davian’s mental shield and Read Asha’s location from him, not long into his imprisonment—perhaps a month after Caeden’s escape?—but even with the intervening time since, Davian’s memories of the experience hadn’t come close to fading.
He still woke every other night drenched in sweat, thanks to what Rethgar had done.
The decaying man—the ‘escherii’—was an Augur of some kind, as far as Davian had been able to tell. Rather than inflicting any bodily harm, he had instead used some sort of modified Control—manipulating elements of Davian’s mind beyond his mental shield, apparently—to bring Davian back into the worst moments of his life. The most painful, both emotionally and physically.
He had done it again, and again, and again.
And when that had not worked, Rethgar had chosen to show Davian a memory of his own.
Davian could still remember the feeling of anticipation as he gazed down on the Darecian-era castle, the calm waters of the Vashian Ocean just beyond. His excitement as he crept into the school. The barely restrained, savage glee as he flitted from room to room to room, murdering all who he came across. Elder Olin, Mistress Alita, Administrator Talean. Children and adults, male and female.
