The Light of All That Falls, page 30
Davian bent down and hefted the pail, his expression contorting at its weight. He allowed another small trickle of Essence into the muscles of his right arm.
“I’ll see you back at camp,” he said grimly.
Davian kept his head down as he trudged along the elevated walkway with the heavy pail, trying not to flinch as an abrupt howl floated from the distant wall of gray smoke that raged on the horizon.
That happened a lot here, he’d discovered—once every day or two. Shrieks of pain echoing out over the dark, dead city. Agonized cries for help, sometimes. Raeleth said that some of the voices repeated, were familiar to him now.
That just made the pleas, when they came, all the more unsettling.
He strained forward as the sound echoed away, muscles in his right arm taut as he hauled the reinforced pail through the cold shadows, angling toward the lake. Isstharis kept her base of operations just south of the water, in one of the few buildings that were entirely intact. He’d seen it from a distance a couple of times, but never needed to approach before.
He passed plenty of people as he made his way up stairs and through short, winding tunnels in the main section of the southern camp, though there was little motion at this point in the day. Many were stretched out on the ground around unlit fires, either sleeping or too exhausted to move. Others simply sat on pieces of rubble, staring absently at nothing.
Most of the activity was provided by al’goriat, which lumbered everywhere between and through the buildings, the creatures often pausing and turning to examine prone figures before unhurriedly pacing on. Perhaps fifty of the Banes wandered the immediate area, from Davian’s count, never in groups and never, seemingly, with any particular pattern or purpose. They just… patrolled. So long as the prisoners didn’t threaten them, and didn’t gather in too large a number, the al’goriat completely ignored them.
Until they didn’t deliver their share of metal, of course. Davian shuddered at the memory of what Raeleth had told him about the consequences of not meeting quota too often.
“Who in fates are you?”
Davian flinched. He’d been lost in thought as he walked through the short tunnel, and hadn’t heard anyone approach.
“My name is Shadat,” he said as he turned, doing his best to speak politely. The tone of the initial question had been unduly aggressive, and he suspected he already knew who was asking it.
The hulking figure before him smiled forbiddingly as their eyes met.
The man who was presumably Maresh towered over Davian by almost a foot, his height matched by a muscle-bound bulk that was one of most naturally intimidating that Davian had ever seen. Just outside the tunnel stood two more men of almost equal stature, bathed in the red moonlight.
Maresh’s eyes glittered as they slid toward the pail, taking note of its contents. “Who are you with, Shadat?”
Davian kept his breathing steady, calming himself. “Ched.”
“Raeleth indisposed today?” Maresh waved lazily at the pail in Davian’s hand, clearly not caring whether he received an answer. “About a third of that will do.”
“A third?” Davian looked at him disbelievingly.
“No, you’re right. I misspoke. A half.” Maresh’s gaze returned to settle on Davian calmly, and he tapped a thick wooden pole in his hand as the two men behind him shifted menacingly. “I don’t know how things work in whichever section you came from, but here you will find that we have very little patience for those who waste our time.”
Davian barely bit back a retort, remembering Raeleth’s warning. Maresh continued to watch him as he gestured; one of the other men stepped forward, dropping an empty pail emphatically next to Davian’s full one.
“Half,” repeated the hulking man. “You fill. We’ll choose which bucket to take with us.”
Davian swallowed his anger and forced a nod, carefully taking chunks of metal from his pail and placing them in Maresh’s. His fury burned hotter and hotter as he felt the three smug sets of eyes on him, but he focused on the work, reminding himself with each motion of what Raeleth had said. He had to pick his battles.
Soon enough he was done, having split the scraps as evenly as he could. Maresh picked up the pail closest to him, then tarried.
“You think we’re traitors. Scum,” he observed, studying Davian’s expression.
“You think you aren’t?” Davian replied, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Maresh’s eyes narrowed. “This is the world we live in now, Shadat. Nobody is getting out, nobody is going home. This”—he gestured around them—“is where we are all going to die. So if I have a way to not spend my days scrounging through ruins, in constant fear of buildings collapsing and Dark and wild Banes, then I am going to take it.” He delivered his explanation calmly, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
Davian stared at him, then forced a mocking laugh. He knew it was the wrong thing to do, but this was just… too hard to ignore.
“Fates,” he chuckled bitterly. “What a wonderful justification for being a disgusting human being.”
The blow caught him by surprise, despite his having known that he was inviting it. A backhand to the head, hard enough to snap him around and send him sprawling, his vision nothing but dizzying white light for several seconds. He choked out a groan, tensing for more, but nothing came.
When his vision cleared, Maresh was looming over him, expression dark.
“I normally don’t like to injure people—it is of no benefit to anyone,” he growled. “But do not make the mistake of thinking that I will not. It has been a while since an example was made. So I wouldn’t try any harder to convince me that one is due.” He nodded to one of the others, a light-skinned man with a completely bald pate and thick beard. “Ald, grab another few pieces. Payment for the unpleasantness.”
Davian gasped another lungful of air as he tried to recover, silently berating himself but biting back any argument as Ald picked out several more chunks of metal from his pail. He was exhausted, frustrated, not a little concerned about his situation—and he’d allowed it all to shorten his temper. Large as these men were, he could probably take on all three with the help of Essence… but he knew no one else in the camp was Gifted. Which meant that revealing his ability here would inevitably attract the wrong kind of attention.
The smart thing to do was to accept this—infuriatingly unjust though it was—and be on his way.
He would need to apologize to Raeleth and the others later for losing more metal than he should have, too.
He didn’t bother using Essence to clear his head, staying down until Maresh and his thugs wandered off, talking and laughing together as if nothing had happened. He wished again that he could just touch kan; he would have had little compunction in Controlling Maresh.
Fates, but he hated the sensation of being helpless. Even in his cell in Ilshan Gathdel Teth, he’d never felt quite like this. In fact, he couldn’t remember feeling this bad since Caladel, practicing to pass his Trials.
He eventually picked himself up, dusting off his already-ripped clothing and peering bleakly into his pail. It was closer to a quarter full now, barely worth the grueling trek to deliver it.
He hefted the significantly lighter pail and squared his shoulders.
Now came the dangerous part.
He trudged forward again, and soon his pulse quickened as he spotted Isstharis—at least, Davian assumed that it was she—in the distance, the glistening black, serpentine body unmistakable as she slithered alongside the lake.
He made a beeline for the creature, doing his best not to shy away as a patrolling al’goriat wandered close to his position, its eyeless gaze roving, needle-like teeth dripping dark red. Davian kept walking, his neck itching as the al’goriat moved on behind him, though it was Isstharis herself who was commanding his attention now.
This was it. The creature had his description. The only question now was whether Raeleth was right in his assertion that the dar’gaithin had difficulty distinguishing between humans.
Isstharis looked up as Davian approached, noting the pail he was carrying.
“Bring it,” she hissed peremptorily, sounding bored, as she slithered off toward the intact building.
Davian did as he was told, trailing after the dar’gaithin and into the deep shadows of the structure.
He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the meager red light filtering in through the windows, taking in a surprisingly ordered space. Three reinforced barrels filled with metal sat in one corner while several more sat in another, these with the gray-green tips of bitterroot sticking out of the tops. The rest of the space was spartan but clean, entirely empty aside from the dozen al’goriat lumbering aimlessly around the interior.
Each of them stopped as Davian and Isstharis entered, turning to watch silently.
Isstharis ignored them, reaching out with a muscular arm and taking the pail from him, hefting it as if it were nothing to her—which, Davian knew, it probably wasn’t. The creatures were far stronger than any human.
“A small return.” Isstharis’s gaze went to Davian and lingered there, her expression turning almost quizzical. Davian did his best not to look nervous.
“Half rations,” Isstharis said finally, turning to empty the pail into one of the barrels, then slithering over and dropping a few bitterroot stems into it.
Davian nodded, knowing not to argue, then dithered. “You know which team?”
Isstharis hissed impatiently. “Raeleth, yes?”
“Yes,” said Davian, hiding his relief.
Isstharis stared at Davian, and he had the distinct impression that she was confused. The creature shook her serpentine head from side to side in evident irritation.
“Go,” she hissed. “It will be credited.”
Davian turned and resisted the urge to flee, instead collecting the pail and walking outside again as calmly as he could, heart pounding disconcertingly against his chest.
He flinched as a peal rang out loud behind him, then twisted to stare at the tower, one of the few structures still standing tall along the side of the lake. Crimson spilled off the swinging bell, though he couldn’t see who, or what, was doing the ringing. The iron in there would probably have fed a team for weeks, but the dar’gaithin had clearly prioritized its function over whatever value the metal itself held for them.
His gaze switched absently to the stagnant spots of light surrounding the crimson crescent that hung, dead, in the sky. The same as always.
Almost absently, he focused and reached out for kan. He did it several times each day; he wasn’t certain, but it felt as if he was getting closer and closer to touching it again. As if every mental stretch inched him nearer.
He released a pent-up breath after a moment, ignoring the brief flood of frustration. It was there, so close that it felt like his straining fingers were brushing against its surface.
But he still couldn’t grasp it. Couldn’t use it.
He sighed, then started the long trek to camp.
Chapter 18
Wirr sat in his office in the palace, flicking the sheet of paper in front of him absently.
It had only one line written on it, the handwriting familiar but beginning to fade after so long. Almost a year old, now.
Aelric taken to Nesk. Following.
Written hurriedly and sealed with the Shainwiere sigil, left with Administration to deliver. With so much chaos in the aftermath of the north-south split, it had taken two months—as far as he could determine—to reach him, and there was no telling if there had been other messages that hadn’t made it at all.
He’d tried to find out more, of course. Dedicated resources he probably shouldn’t have, though on that count he’d at least had the backing of his uncle and Karaliene, who both considered Aelric and Dezia all but family. But there had been nothing—not then, and not since.
He flicked the paper again, partly absently and partly in irritation at his helplessness. Nesk. Andarra and its southernmost neighbor had never, in their entire history, been on friendly terms, the Neskians persistent in their claims that the southernmost half of Andarra was theirs by ancestral right. The immense Mountains of Alai blocked most opportunities for major conflict; they were impassable in winter, and the crossing was extraordinarily dangerous during the rest of the year. Even so, regardless of who ruled in Nesk’s capital city of Ishai—and that changed every few years without fail, sometimes several times before anyone in Andarra even heard about it—there was always a push to attempt another glorious retaking of ‘Neskian’ land.
Even if Dezia had made it past the border, what little Wirr knew of the country gave him scant comfort. The Neskians were a bloodthirsty people who traded in strange systems of honor, who outlawed all religion and enslaved their prisoners. Neskian slave traders occasionally crossed into Andarra, disguised as merchants and taking back Andarran captives, who were highly valued for sport.
If Aelric had gone there, it wouldn’t have been by choice.
He stared at Dezia’s note for a long time before shaking his head. Dezia could look after herself—he knew that. Still, he missed her and worried about her; no amount of reasoning in the world could prevent that. He’d played her departure over and over again in his mind, wondering if he should have attempted to stop her. But every time he imagined it, he knew it wouldn’t have done any good: Dezia was nothing if not independent and if she thought Aelric was in trouble, nothing would have prevented her from helping him. And for all Wirr wished he could have gone with her, he knew he’d done what was best.
Fates, but he hated duty.
“She can look after herself, you know.”
Wirr started at the soft voice from the door, which had opened without his noticing. He turned, giving his younger sister a tired smile and motioning her inside.
“Del,” he said affectionately. He glanced back at the paper in his hand, his smile slipping. Deldri knew about the message—she was one of the few people he’d felt comfortable confiding in. “I know,” he added quietly.
“Which is why you’re staring at that note and looking like you’re going to burst into tears,” retorted Deldri impudently as she shut the door behind her, slipping over to Wirr and giving him an impromptu hug around the shoulders before he could react.
“I am not,” retorted Wirr in a growl, folding the paper carefully and slotting it back into his desk drawer. “And knowing doesn’t stop me from worrying,” he added.
Deldri gave him a sympathetic smile, observing the stack of pages at the corner of his desk that were covered in precise, elegantly flowing handwriting. “But it helps for Cousin Karaliene?”
“That’s different. She… likes to keep us informed,” Wirr understated with vague amusement, glancing at the letters. Those came with almost zealous regularity, and had done so ever since Kara had left six months ago. He hadn’t really expected her to be so fastidious about staying in touch, but given her extended absence, both he and his uncle had appreciated not having to wonder whether she was all right.
He reached over, thumbing absently through his cousin’s correspondence as he tried to remember when the next letter was due to arrive. A week, maybe? Publicly, the princess was still managing the official relief efforts in the north—distributing supplies where they were needed, and directing Assembly-sponsored work crews to help rebuild areas damaged by either the Blind or the Banes. Or both, in some cases. It was a worthy task, given how hard the Andarran people there had been hit over the past couple of years. Not to mention that her publicized, detailed monthly reports to the Assembly continued to generate some much-needed goodwill with the populace.
Privately, though, the princess was also looking for any clues as to where the Banes had gone. Those letters were sent in secret to Wirr every two weeks; he shared them with his uncle and Deldri, but no one else. Kara hadn’t found anything yet—he could almost feel her frustration emanating from the page, sometimes—but it was nice to receive those more personable, familiar messages from her, too.
Deldri interrupted his distracted reverie as she threw herself into a chair opposite him, commanding his attention with an exaggerated sigh.
“So. I’m here because Administrator Tulean pulled me aside this morning. She didn’t say anything specifically about you, but…”
Wirr rolled his eyes. “But she was trying to turn you against me.” He scowled. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault.” Deldri still smiled but her eyes were tired, far beyond the sort of weariness a fourteen-year-old should know. The scar across her forehead from Isiliar’s attack had remained, an ugly reminder of when he’d nearly lost her. “At least they’re being less obvious now. Nobody’s directly accusing you of anything.”
“I wish you’d tell me who was doing that.”
“And I told you that I would, if I thought it would help. But if I do, you’ll keep me away from them, and they’ll figure out that I told you. And then the next time, when they try and actually do something, it won’t involve me.” Deldri smiled brightly at him. “Seems like if they’re going to be treasonous, it would be good for us to know about it before the actual treason part.”
Wirr snorted. “Have I mentioned that you’re far too good at this?”
“Spending all that time around here with Mother was good for one thing, at least.” The mixture of sadness and bitterness in Deldri’s tone was undisguised.
Wirr winced. Deldri had been nothing but loyal to him over the past year, and yet events had conspired to put a gulf between them that had never been there before—one that Wirr was unsure could ever be fully bridged.
Despite Karaliene, Erran, and Ishelle’s confirmation of what had happened at the Boundary, the narrative around the palace had remained much murkier: that Geladra, who was poised to remove Wirr from his position as Northwarden, had gone north to give her son one last chance to prove himself… and had mysteriously died in the process. While he, of course, had lived.
