The Light of All That Falls, page 78
They reached the bottom, and Asha’s step stuttered as she took in the passageway of Essence-lit, shining steel that stretched out in front of them.
“Each plate is a Vessel,” explained Davian as they started forward. “It can be moved and reconfigured individually, but it’s also part of a much larger whole—one designed to hold back the effects of the time distortion coming from Zvaelar.” Asha could hear the begrudging note of respect in his tone. “If it hadn’t cost thousands of lives, I’d probably say it was quite brilliant.”
They came to a seemingly arbitrary point in the hallway and Davian eased to a stop, staring down at his hand. “She’s close now. Somewhere that way.” He gestured at the wall to their left.
Caeden acknowledged the statement and placed his hand against the steel plate. “I’m going to take a little extra Essence from you,” he warned Asha.
The steel flashed blue, and the hallway… transformed.
Asha watched in astonishment as steel snapped away and together again, plates moving at blinding, terrifying speeds as they shifted smoothly in a balletic, kaleidoscopic dance of motion and crackling blue light. Within seconds, a new hallway stretched out before them.
“This way,” said Caeden, striding forward.
Asha exchanged a glance with Davian, who shrugged and followed.
They walked the newly formed corridor for another minute before more glimmering metal up ahead signaled a dead end. Caeden paused at the blockage, nodding to Davian’s hand.
“You need to release that into the steel,” he said.
Davian grunted, recognition in his eyes as he pressed his hand against the door. “This was one of the rooms blocking my way earlier. I thought they might be keyed to an Essence signature.” The power swirling around his fingers dissipated, sucked into the metal.
Nothing happened for a long moment, and then the steel slid smoothly aside.
The three of them entered the room beyond warily, though there was no sign of any resistance from within. Asha was surprised to find the space warmly decorated. Homey, even. Rugs covered the steel on the floor; one plate on the wall pulsed bright with Essence, apparently providing heat for the room as well as the warm, fire-like light. Well-read books lined the shelves.
The large, comfortable-looking bed in the corner was occupied, and Asha didn’t have to look closely to recognize Diara’s form. The woman breathed regularly, her expression peaceful. Only the telltale glow of Essence flowing from a nearby plate into her body gave away the fact that she wasn’t simply taking a nap.
Caeden didn’t hesitate. He walked over to the bed, drew Licanius, and pushed it carefully—almost gently—through Diara’s heart.
Asha looked away, skin crawling. No matter the necessity of what they were doing—no matter what Diara had done—there was no getting away from the quiet ugliness of the act. Davian, she noticed, continued to watch, a profound sorrow in his expression.
“Don’t feel too sad for her, Dav,” Asha murmured.
Davian shook his head. “It’s not for her.”
Asha turned back, falling silent as she watched Caeden leaning forward, resting against the hilt of the blade, head bowed over the corpse. His body shook with silent sobs.
Finally he murmured something before straightening, gently drawing Licanius out of Diara’s chest, wiping the blade solemnly before sheathing it again.
“It’s done.” Caeden looked at them tiredly, and Asha could see the toll that simple act had taken on him. He picked up Diara’s limp hand, displaying a ring on her index finger. “This was Isiliar’s dok’en key. Diara must have modified it to access mine. She always was brilliant,” he finished softly.
He was about to move back toward the entrance when he paused, spotting something sitting on the desk to the side. He walked over, shaking his head slightly, and reached down, wordlessly displaying what he’d picked up to Asha and Davian.
Asha stared, nonplussed, as she recognized the silver ring—the one she had given to Davian so long ago. To her side, Davian smiled ruefully. “They took it off me the day I was taken prisoner,” he explained. He held out his hand.
Caeden hesitated, then shook his head and pocketed the Vessel instead. “I’ll hang on to it for now.” He shrugged at Davian’s expression. “You don’t go back until you have it, so…”
Davian grunted. “Good point.”
Asha watched the exchange mutely, heart wrenching as it always did when she was reminded of what was coming. Caeden had taken the ring from Davian’s corpse—she had seen it herself. So if Davian didn’t have it, it meant he couldn’t go back in time just yet.
That was entirely fine by her.
“We need to find Gassandrid now,” said Caeden. He drew out another vial of Essence—the dull, lifeless one—and handed it to Davian. “See what you can do.”
Davian opened the vial, letting the energy dance around his fingers once again. This time, though, the Essence seemed… sluggish. Lethargic.
Nobody spoke as Davian closed his eyes, focusing.
“They are…” He gestured vaguely. “Everywhere. Scattered. A couple of pulses nearby, but others… I can barely feel them. They’re not in Talan Gol, of that much I’m certain.” He paused. “Though… there is a group of them still together. Somewhere to the south.”
Caeden rubbed his face. “He’s gone to Deilannis, then,” he said, sounding unsurprised.
“You thought this would happen?” asked Asha.
“Yes. Once the Boundary fell, it’s what I expected,” Caeden admitted morosely. “So we go to Deilannis. We’re going to need to go there anyway, to stop Shammaeloth from getting in. And to…”
He gave Davian an apologetic look.
Asha’s breath caught, and she gripped Davian’s hand almost on instinct. He squeezed back, the gesture both a reassurance and a search for comfort.
“It’s likely that Shammaeloth will have found a way to tell him that Licanius is a threat again, too, even if they’re assuming I’m dead,” Caeden continued. “Gassandrid will be heading for Deilannis regardless—he believes that he’s getting sent back, and that can’t happen from anywhere else. But if he spots us coming, he won’t stay there for long.”
Davian nodded slowly. “I’ll let you make the Gate,” he said, the small smile shared between the two men speaking of an inside joke.
“We’ll have to detour past the Tributary, too,” Caeden added, almost as an afterthought.
Asha frowned. “Why?”
“We can take that linking Vessel from Tenvar, use it to maintain the flow of Essence between us instead. If you have no objections,” Caeden added. He shrugged at her expression. “We’ll leave Tenvar himself with the Shadows; he’ll be no worse off than he was at the Tol. But we are going to need to separate eventually, and Deilannis is one place where I cannot afford to run out of Essence. If it comes down to a fight, I’m going to need strength, not just kan. And you,” he said significantly, “are going to need everything extra you can get to maintain an ilshara around all of Deilannis. That’s the only way left to keep Shammaeloth out, now.”
Asha stared at him blankly. “What?” She shook her head. “I… I don’t know how to do that.”
“I’ve seen what you can do, Ashalia.” Caeden spoke almost cheerfully, his words full of confidence. “Don’t worry. You’re more than capable of this.”
Davian touched a hand to her arm. “I’ll be there to help where I can, too,” he assured her.
The responsibility settled heavy on Asha’s shoulders, but she nodded. There weren’t any other options left to them now, anyway.
“So we sneak in. Kill Gassandrid. I create this ilshara over the entire city to hold back Shammaeloth,” she repeated faintly. “What then?”
Caeden slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out the last vial. He stared for a long moment at the dancing energy within.
“Then we end this,” he said softly.
Chapter 49
Wirr groaned, every part of his body feeling as though it were on fire as he groggily came awake.
What had happened to him? His mind struggled to catch up. They had been fighting the Desrielites for days. They had been losing. That desperate, futile last stand, knowing he was going to die.
And then…
His eyes snapped open, his breathing shallow and panicked. The Columns.
“Be easy,” murmured a deep, unfamiliar voice to his right.
He twisted to find a stranger sitting across the campfire from his prone position on the ground, perched atop a log and watching him intently. It was night, stars glittering through the haze of wood smoke, though Wirr thought he could see the last vestiges of dusk still fading in the west. They seemed to be high up; Wirr could hear the sounds of other people somewhere farther below, but the edge of the campsite’s small plateau blocked his view downward.
The crackling fire lit the stranger’s face a ruddy red. His skin was pale, nose sharp, hair braided in an unusual pattern. Wirr struggled to place it for a moment.
Then he tensed. “You’re Neskian?” he croaked.
“I am Neskian,” replied the stranger calmly. His grasp of the Andarran language—shared by all countries north of the Mountains of Alai—was surprisingly good, with very little of the thick, slurring accent that Wirr had come to expect from someone native to Nesk. “And you are Andarran. But today, at least, I will not hold that against you.”
The man spoke lightly; Wirr’s eyes narrowed, feeling certain that the Neskian was making sport of him. He blinked, trying to clear his head. “Who are you? Where are we?” His heart pounded almost as hard as his head. “How long have I been unconscious?”
The man raised a hand in a warding gesture, a small smile on his lips. “I am called Ankalat. We are not far from where we found you, but you have been asleep for nearly a day. You were very badly injured, dhan. Do not try to move.”
Shock made Wirr struggle to sit, despite Ankalat’s warning. “The Desrielites,” he gasped.
“Have stopped their advance. We are holding them.”
“You’re not holding them,” Wirr said desperately. “They are exactly where they want to be.”
Ankalat looked at him as if he thought Wirr wasn’t fully conscious yet, but he was stopped from saying anything more by a feminine voice behind him.
“Wirr?”
Wirr’s heart beat faster. He turned slowly, fearful to find that his ears had deceived him.
Dezia stood at the edge of the fire, looking at him with light in her eyes.
He stared openmouthed as she grinned at him; suddenly she was on her knees by his side, embracing him so tightly that only the fact that it was her stopped him from flinching away as his already-sore ribs creaked. He held her dazedly.
“What… how?” he whispered.
Dezia laughed, though it was choked off by what sounded like a small sob. “It’s a long story.”
She kissed him and he returned it eagerly, ignoring Ankalat’s presence. Eventually he heard a half-awkward, half-annoyed cough from over Dezia’s shoulder, and he reluctantly pulled away again. At some point Ankalat had left, and another figure—this one familiar—had taken his place.
“Aelric?” Wirr felt another grin split his features as he recognized the young man standing across the fire. He looked older by much more than the year or so since Wirr had seen him, body leaner and harder than it had been. He was clothed in unusual-looking black sleeves and gloves. “Fates! It’s good to see you!” Wirr had long regretted his decision to let Aelric leave, to not tell Dezia about it until it was too late. Seeing him here, alive and apparently well, was a genuine moment of joy and relief.
Aelric hesitated, then smiled back.
“Good to see you as well, Torin,” he said, though the strange tension in his stance didn’t ease. “You look like you’re recovering.” He cast a wry eye at his sister, who blushed.
Wirr tested his limbs one by one, stretching stiff muscles and probing at bruises. “I can fight.” A jolt of concern ran through him; he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain. “What about everyone else?”
Aelric shook his head. “You, Taeris, and a few others were the only lucky ones.”
“Taeris made it?”
“He hasn’t woken up yet, but the healers say he’ll pull through.”
Wirr closed his eyes, exhaling. He’d already known that casualties would be high, but Taeris’s surviving was wonderful news. “The Desrielites. What’s happening?”
Aelric shrugged. “We withdrew a little way, decided to get our bearings before starting anything. Why in fates were you fighting back there? Why didn’t you retreat?”
“Do you have eyes on them?” Wirr asked, not bothering to hide the tension in his tone.
“Yes. Of course,” Aelric said slowly. “Scouts are rotating out every hour, but so far none have reported any signs of them advancing. If anything, they seem entirely content to stay where they are. They’ve even set up some sort of structure in the middle of their camp.”
Wirr felt a chill. ”Black columns?”
“Yes.” Aelric’s gaze turned sharp as he saw Wirr’s expression. “What are they?”
“Vessels. And if they activate them, everyone and everything for several hundred miles will be dead within a day.” Wirr rubbed his face, ignoring Dezia’s and Aelric’s shocked expressions, trying to get his bearings. He desperately wanted to ask Dezia where she’d been, whether she was well, how circumstances had brought her here—but there simply wasn’t time. “These people you’re with—Neskians? Are you in charge?”
Aelric coughed. “Not exactly.”
“We have Warlord Amar’s ear,” added Dezia quickly, “but they’re sort of… allies, I suppose?” She looked to Aelric for help, but he just shrugged ruefully.
Wirr frowned. “Warlord? There’s a Neskian Warlord here?” There were only four of those in all of Nesk—it was the highest position in their country. Wirr watched the others’ faces, then turned and walked toward the edge of the small plateau, heart sinking.
“Wait!” Aelric held a hand out as if to stop him with the motion, wincing as he did so.
Wirr reached the edge, staring in disbelief at the scene below.
“There have to be a thousand troops down there,” he whispered, blood turning cold. Campfires stretched away deep into the approaching valley, each one surrounded by men in distinctive red-and-black uniforms. “A thousand Neskian troops.”
“Surprise,” said Dezia weakly.
“How? Why?” Wirr ran a hand through his hair, calculating. “Wait—this was the invasion force we kept getting reports about? How did you know to come here, of all places? How did you get here so fast?”
“Cyr,” said Aelric. “He’s one of the Venerate.”
“Was,” corrected Dezia, sadness flickering briefly across her features.
“And we are able to move our troops swiftly. That is all you need to know.”
The new voice cut through the air behind Dezia and Aelric; Wirr turned to see Ankalat standing at the edge of the fire, having apparently materialized from nowhere. The handsome young man was watching Wirr intently, and Wirr got the distinct impression that his gaze was a disapproving one.
A moment later Ankalat’s gaze switched to Dezia, and Wirr suddenly thought he knew why. He resisted the irrational, jealous feeling of insecurity that stirred in his chest.
“We will pose no threat to your country, and my father has agreed to help turn back the Desrielite invasion,” continued Ankalat. “So long as you can guarantee the peaceful transfer of ownership of Lord Aelric’s land, now that he is a citizen of Nesk.”
“What?” Wirr shook his head in confusion, glancing across at Aelric. “A Neskian citizen?”
“Believe me, that’s not the strangest thing that’s happened,” Dezia assured Wirr, laying a hand gently on his arm. “As I said. Long story. We’re still with you,” she added softly, quietly enough that the other two couldn’t hear the words.
Wirr gestured in frustration. “I can’t just cede Andarran land to Nesk. I don’t have that kind of authority.” Not only was there no time for nonsense like this, but Aelric didn’t officially have any land yet, even if the paperwork was technically underway.
“As second in line to the throne, your word will be enough for my father,” Ankalat assured him calmly. “The rest is detail.”
Wirr felt a pang of grief as he thought of his uncle. “Heir, actually.”
“What?” Dezia and Aelric both spoke at once and Wirr met their gazes, shaking his head.
“Uncle didn’t make it out of Ilin Illan,” he explained heavily, watching as shock and sadness crept over their expressions. Kevran had been like a father to them.
“What… what about Karaliene?” asked Dezia, voice threatening to crack.
“I don’t know,” admitted Wirr. “She was in the north when the city was attacked. Hopefully, by now, she’s had the sense to head to Prythe.”
There was silence, and then Dezia and Aelric both nodded, a fresh, cheerless resolve pasted on their faces. Wirr nodded back. He knew that look.
Grieve later.
Wirr turned to Ankalat. “When can I speak with Warlord Amar? If he wants this deal, then it needs to be now.” This was the least terrible of his terrible options, and there was simply no time to argue or negotiate. He needed the Neskian army, and he needed it immediately.
As if on cue, Ankalat produced a document and pen with a flourish, laying them flat against the smooth surface of a nearby shield and gesturing expansively. “No need. Sign, and our men are yours to command until the Desrielites have been defeated.”
Wirr restrained a scowl—he was quickly coming to the conclusion that he didn’t like the man—and strode over, scanning the paper quickly. It was in the Andarran language and seemed to all be in order, though he knew it didn’t really matter. Right now, he would have agreed to a treaty handing over half of Andarra if it meant stopping the Desrielites.
