The Light of All That Falls, page 67
“So the Desrielites broke away and just… accepted that you were gods?”
Caeden snorted. “No. It took generations for that to happen, and it wasn’t really our doing. Gassandrid made us known as heralds of the one true god—he didn’t mention El, as that was too closely associated with the Darecians—and established the rules against using Essence. In retrospect, I think that might have been influenced by Shammaeloth’s instructions, too,” he added grimly. “But after the Boundary went up, the Gil’shar declared independence from the remaining Darecians, splitting Andarra. And out of all that, over the years, rituals and new laws were made surrounding what Gassandrid had said. His words got twisted or misinterpreted and other, outside stories about the Venerate made their way into the canon, too. People started adding to his rules, expanding upon them. Usually to further their own positions of power.
“None of us—even me—really cared. If anything, it meant that when the Boundary came down, they could be more easily used as a distraction.” He shrugged awkwardly. “But apparently the others had much more in mind for them. This must have been part of what they were doing, this past year, once they knew it was safe to leave Talan Gol. Organizing the Gil’shar. Teaching them how to order the Banes, use the Columns.”
He shook his head ruefully. “But enough of that. I’ll sneak in—it will be much more effective if I just appear in their midst. And there’s no time to waste, I suppose,” he concluded cheerlessly.
“Now?” Wirr ran his hands through his hair.
“I’ll build a Gate first, once I find somewhere secure a little farther down,” said Caeden. “Regardless of whether this succeeds, I need to get to Ilshan Gathdel Teth as quickly as possible afterward. Davian will be getting out of Zvaelar very soon.”
He paused, a thread of guilt worming through his gut. Even thirty years on, he was still deeply ashamed of what he’d done there, at the end.
“But after that, yes—immediately. And I’ll go alone,” he added, anticipating the next question. “Gods don’t need support, and there’s no need to risk anyone else, anyway. Instead, position your Gifted at a safe distance around the outside of the camp. Everyone you can.” He held Wirr’s gaze. “I’ll be back by nightfall if I’m successful. If you don’t hear from me by then, wait until you see me signal, and then fire some Essence at them.” He squinted back at the camp, thinking. “With a spyglass, you should be able to pick me out from up here. Attack in the right places, and the distraction might just allow me to get out again.”
“I’ll go, too. You can manage to sneak in one more person.” Asha scowled at him as he made to protest. “If the Gil’shar capture you, then that’s it—we lose. I’ll hide somewhere while you try to convince them, and if it doesn’t work, I can be there to help you escape.” She looked at him resolutely. “From what Wirr says, they have a lot of new weapons down there. It’s not smart to do this alone.”
Caeden wavered, seeing the determination in Asha’s eyes.
“If there’s a fight, you won’t even be able to rely on that armor of yours. You’ll only have whatever extra strength and reflexes Essence gives you.”
“The armor’s anchored to my skin. It’s basically internal,” replied Asha firmly. “Traps won’t affect it. I’ll be fine.”
Caeden sighed, but eventually nodded. He didn’t like the idea of risking both himself and Asha—they were, arguably, the Andarrans’ most powerful weapons now—but Asha was right. One other person could easily sneak in with him, and having such a formidable ally inside could make all the difference.
Wirr chewed his lip, sighing but not protesting as he realized that Caeden had conceded to Asha. “Nightfall?”
“Nightfall,” confirmed Caeden. “If you’ve heard nothing by then, keep an eye out for some sort of signal. You’ll know it if you see it.”
“We’ll be watching,” Wirr promised, Taeris adding his agreement.
Caeden gave him a tight smile of acknowledgment, then beckoned to Asha.
They started down the hill.
Chapter 42
Caeden studied the Gil’shar soldiers from the cover of the trees, then focused and stepped outside of time.
He moved calmly but swiftly once his surroundings slowed to near motionless, pulling Asha with him, navigating past the guards and into the outer ring of the Gil’shar camp. Kan was already a little unstable here from their proximity to the Columns, and while he wasn’t worried just yet, he had to acknowledge that he wasn’t going to be able to do this for long periods. Particularly as he got closer to the castle.
“We need to find clothes,” he said softly.
They sized up the area, beginning to check inside some of the more isolated tents. Soon enough they had collected two uniforms, and Caeden politely turned his back as they both swiftly changed into Desrielite attire.
As soon as they were done, Caeden glanced around to make sure no one would see, and let his time bubble drop.
No one stopped them or even looked twice as they walked down the makeshift street between the tents, heading directly for the castle. The sounds of the camp washed over Caeden as he made his way along. Soldiers laughed, cursed, gambled. Officers barked orders in irritable tones. Men and women moaned to each other about the drudgery of their tasks as they pitched tents or dug lavatories, or tried to show bravado by talking of what they would do when they finally got to face the Andarrans properly.
On the whole, then, it was the same as most military encampments Caeden had seen. Just a collection of people. Misled, and some of them—as with any army—undoubtedly here for selfish reasons. But far from evil.
He gave Asha’s arm a warning squeeze and shifted them outside of time again at the next checkpoint—perhaps a few hundred feet from the castle—cognizant of how the time bubble shivered around him this time. He didn’t dare let it drop here, though; this was clearly a more secure area of the camp, with everyone in sight bearing the markings of an officer.
They stepped quickly toward the crumbling structure, Caeden wincing at flickers of faster movement outside the time bubble. The Columns, in their inactive state, made kan much harder to grasp, but seemed to interfere with existing kan structures slightly less. He just needed to maintain his manipulation of time until they were in position.
The castle itself was in better condition than it had appeared from afar. Though the upper edges of the gray stone walls were crumbling, the courtyard and inner buildings remained solidly intact, and the soldiers on watch up above moved comfortably, with no fear of the stone giving way beneath their feet.
It was a massive fortress, capable of housing at least a thousand soldiers, though that number was undoubtedly lessened by some of the damage from age. The Darecians must have spent years building it, though to what purpose, out in this abandoned section of the world, Caeden had no idea.
Once through the gates, he located a tower with a good view out over the encampment, one of its sides crumbling. Though a path between two sections of the castle ran through it, the connecting hallway didn’t appear to be well-traveled. As good a spot as any for Asha to wait.
It only took a few minutes to find their way there; once satisfied that it would be appropriate, Caeden guided Asha into one of the corners of a small side room. A position where she would be able to see out the window, as well as through the missing wall on the opposite side.
“You can’t go anywhere once this is done,” he murmured as he started on her invisibility shield. “It’s anchored to the wall. You take more than a step out, and they’ll be able to see you.”
“I know.” Asha looked pensive as she watched Caeden finish his work, but she sounded calm enough. They had gone over the plan several times already, simple though it was.
Caeden finally stepped back, Asha vanishing from view as the invisibility shield took hold. He gave a brief nod of satisfaction.
“El with you,” he murmured.
“You too,” whispered Asha’s voice in response.
Caeden reduced his time bubble to encompass only himself, and then moved on.
It took him almost ten minutes—focus close to breaking point—to find the Gil’shar. They had, unsurprisingly, taken the massive main hall to use for their discussions. He slipped past the guards at the door and noted several men present inside, their ages ranging from twenty through to at least eighty. Each of them bore the golden knot that indicated their rank, though.
Chief priests. Desriel’s equivalent of the Assembly.
Relief flooded through him. Wirr had told him that they were present—information uncovered from the soldier Erran had Read—and Caeden had assumed that at least most of them would be gathered together, planning out their next move. But there had been no guarantees.
He walked onto the dais, raised above where the men were talking, and carefully tapped Essence to form his own symbol—the wolf’s head—large on the two side walls and the one behind him. Then he slammed the double doors to the room and sealed them with more Essence, locking out the guards.
He burned away the disguise that he had been wearing, leaving him naked—nothing man-made touching his skin; that was important—and let the time bubble drop.
“Priests.” He let Essence shine out from him, a blinding wave of light. The men down below leaped as if physically attacked as Caeden’s voice boomed unnaturally loud around the hall; as he let it fade he funneled more Essence to the symbols on the wall, drawing the men’s attention to them. “Kneel.”
The men knelt with alacrity. Eight of them, Caeden realized. One was missing. Unfortunate—it would have been best if all of them were present for this—but these should easily be enough.
“Command us, O Talkanor,” called the man at the front. He was older, with graying hair and a face that spoke of restraint and severity. His knot indicated that he was High Priest of Alar.
Something was bothering Caeden about the scene, but he couldn’t place it.
“No.” He made his gaze hard. “Have you forgotten the signs required by law before divinity is accepted?”
The youngest man’s voice shook as he spoke up. “The secret signs which you have already shown us, O Talkanor. And… the divine marks written upon your flesh.” He faltered, clearly unwilling to push the point.
“Good. Then fetch your weapon,” growled Caeden, his voice rolling around the room. “Let me prove to you who I am, and then you will listen.”
The words hadn’t yet faded to silence before one of the priests was scurrying to a large chest at the side of the room. Caeden had been expecting as much: the sacred artifacts used in rituals were rarely far from the high priests, and weapons were unfortunately all too often needed in Gil’shar rituals.
The man’s trembling hands finally emerged clutching a spear, long and sleek. Caeden gave it a dismissive glance and then refused to look at it further, though he was not looking forward to the next part.
“You know what to do,” he said.
“O-of course, O Talkanor,” said the man, his head bowed. “For the glory of the Last God.”
Caeden stretched his hands out to the sides, slightly above his shoulders, keeping his face calm. This was going to hurt: the spear would pierce his heart and he would leave it there, letting the blood flow from the wound, guiding it around his body to form the symbols of each of the Venerate. A disgusting ritual, but a convincing one.
“Strike,” he said calmly, the word thundering off every corner of the hall.
The spear went through his heart, and Caeden immediately knew that something was wrong.
His jaw clenched and he looked down at the tip sprouting from his chest, dark blood already spilling down his skin toward his bare stomach. The tip of the spear was black, not metal. That was wrong.
He started funneling the blood into his own wolf symbol but halfway through had to pause, pain getting in the way; he tapped his Essence Reserve, quickly flooding some of it to the wound in order to ease the pressure.
The Essence dissipated.
Caeden felt a chill of panic, his mind suddenly hazy. He looked up at the priests for the first time, finally spotting what he should have seen earlier. Fear, but something else, too.
Excitement.
With a groan Caeden stumbled, going to his knees, trying to grip the spear and pull it out but unable to do so.
“Alar warned us that you would come. A man with the temerity to call himself divine. A false god,” said the older man. “Had you not wondered where your own chief priest was?” He walked up to Caeden, evidently growing in confidence, and crouched down in front of him. “Didn’t you hear his cries? Or those of half your followers? They have carried the Great Weapon as penance, you know. Some willingly, others not. But they have suffered and died and where have you been, O God of Balance?”
Caeden wheezed in reply, unable to do anything more than watch as the massive symbols on the wall faded into nothing. The spear was a Vessel. It was blocking his ability to stave off the effects of the wound. He wasn’t going to die from this, but he couldn’t do much else until the thing was pulled out of his body.
Alaris had anticipated this. Or Gassandrid, or Diara. One of them had equipped the Gil’shar with this spear for this very purpose. All such weapons were supposed to have been destroyed, but apparently the other Venerate had done many things of which he was unaware.
“You are… making a mistake,” he gasped, knowing the facade of his godhood was done with now. “Alar is the one who… has betrayed you.”
Should he have done this differently? Would it have made a difference if he had been honest and simply shown them the memory of Dareci’s fall from the start, the millions dying in the life-draining shadow of the Columns? He’d been intending to do it eventually, but he’d thought it needed to come from Talkanor, not from him.
It probably wouldn’t have changed anything. Still, he reached out, trying desperately to feed them the images, to change their minds.
It was far too late.
Everything faded.
Caeden tried to moan, but no sound came out.
He sluggishly fuzzed back to awareness, the breeze sweeping down from the mountains icy against his cheek, distracting against the surreal absence of any other feeling. It took a brief, disoriented moment to remember what had happened.
His heart started to drum as his eyes rolled down and he saw the spear, jutting a good foot out in front of him.
It had been moved. It was through his neck now.
His spine was severed, he realized dimly. He could tell that someone had clothed him again but he couldn’t feel the fabric, or anything else, below the wound.
The spear had to be one of Andrael’s weapons, given his body’s inability to adjust. He hadn’t recognized it—it wasn’t one of the five Blades, at least—but this must have been an earlier attempt. Something else created during Andrael’s hundreds of years experimenting with ways to end the Venerate.
He closed his eyes, cursing himself for his overconfidence. Alaris, as usual, had thought ahead. That he had poisoned the Gil’shar against Caeden was no surprise; Caeden had been prepared for that, had thought of plenty of ways that he might work to overcome whatever lies had been told. But he hadn’t foreseen the weapon. Alaris must have guessed that he would try to use his ‘godhood’ to talk down the Desrielites, and planned accordingly.
He shifted his head slightly, relieved to find he could do so, even if the pain was exquisite. The injury must be toward the base of his throat. He closed his eyes again, reaching out for kan.
There was nothing there.
He frowned, searching apprehensively for the dark energy. He could understand the spear blocking him, but this…
His heart sank as he realized what was wrong.
“That looks uncomfortable.”
Caeden opened his eyes again at the voice, rolling his eyes to the left and then managing a wan smile as he saw who had spoken. He opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a gargle.
Erran smiled back through a mask of dried blood, which coated the left side of his face. The head wound he’d sustained was clearly a little higher, with much of his hair matted, caked with sticky brown. He wasn’t bound.
“Sorry I can’t pull it out. They don’t like it much when I try,” he said apologetically, gesturing to the blood on his face. He glanced upward, then quickly turned away at an angle, no longer looking at Caeden. “Try not to move. They’ll probably make me go elsewhere if they realize you’re awake.”
Caeden grunted in response, doing his best to look around without moving his head. From what he could see, along with Erran, there were about a half dozen men and women in the courtyard. The others were all huddled together over at the far side, talking softly and occasionally glancing anxiously toward Caeden and Erran, though none of them appeared to realize that he was conscious.
The space in which they were imprisoned was at least a hundred feet long and perhaps a third as wide. Grass grew tangled and wild through the cobblestones, but otherwise it was in good repair, with sturdy-looking gates barring the only two entrances. Walls rose sharply on each side, fifteen feet to the top at least. As Caeden’s gaze traveled upward, he spotted heavily armored, attentive-looking guards glaring down, crossbows readied.
Erran followed his gaze. “Not the best accommodations,” he agreed quietly. “The Columns are on just the other side of that wall, unless I got completely turned around when they brought me in. I assume that they’re the fates-cursed reason we can’t use either kan or Essence.”
