Breath of Heaven, page 40
“Lotaern died at Caercaern. I suspect few of his Flame survived Khalaek-khai’s attack on the city.”
“But Lotaern sent his warrior acolytes out into House lands, remember? We have two of them here, kept as prisoners. I’m certain there are many more who did not return to Caercaern, since Lotaern never ordered them back, in defiance of the Evant. His most powerful acolytes were in Caercaern, but I doubt that those here and spread throughout the rest of the Houses are untrained. If we have any hope of defeating Khalaek-khai and his fellow Wraiths, we’re going to need them.”
* * *
Quotl rode out of the dwarren tunnels into a blast of frigid air and the pin-prick pain of particles of ice. Not quite snow, the precipitation immediately began collecting in his beard and he huffed in annoyance, turning toward Azuka, who rode to his right.
“It’s worse than the forward scouts reported.”
Azuka said nothing. There was nothing to say.
As the rest of the dwarren emerged from the tunnels behind him, ducking beneath the onslaught of the gusting wind and the abrasive ice it carried, Quotl urged his gaezel toward the nearest ridge. His animal plowed gamely forward through the layer of snow that covered the plains. A thick layer of clouds rolled by overhead, blacker and more threatening to the north and west. It was obvious the snow would start up again soon; this break was only a small reprieve.
He contemplated the northern darkness, running a hand through his beard as he did so. Accumulated ice crackled as it broke and pattered down into his seat. His exposed skin beneath his newly donned helm already felt red and tight with the cold.
He turned to the south. Sunlight broke through the clouds in patches, the shafts of light spearing down onto the snowy plains for long moments before the roiling movement closed up the holes. The interplay of light and shadow was beautiful, but Quotl found it hard to appreciate fully.
Especially when he saw Ikterru approaching, the eldest Rider who’d survived the battle at the Sacred Waters and who’d taken over as the leader of the dwarren warriors. If there had been any semblance of clan divisions left, he would have been a clan chief, and for all intents and purposes he was, except in name.
But he didn’t agree with Quotl’s decision to lead them to Caercaern to help the Alvritshai. He had followed Quotl’s orders up to this point, voicing his opinions only in the company of Quotl and Azuka, but Quotl could see the anger on the Rider’s face as he urged his gaezel through the knee-deep snow.
“Archon!” he called, his voice loud, even if it was broken by the wind. “Archon, we need to speak.”
“I hear you, Ikterru. No need to shout.”
Ikterru’s breath plumed in the air as he passed Quotl’s constant escort of four. Quotl returned to looking to the north. Lightning flared in the darkest part of the storm, but it wasn’t the strange purplish lightning of the unnatural storms that came from the east. This was natural.
Ikterru drew up on his left. The Rider shot a glance around to make certain no one was near enough to hear. “You can’t possibly expect the Riders to travel in this. It’s already knee deep on the gaezels. And by the look of that storm, there’s more on the way.”
“The elloktu’s army is to the north.”
“How do you know? Are they creating this storm? Is it to keep us away?”
Quotl’s brow furrowed and for a moment he allowed himself to sink in to the power of the Land surrounding them. It flowed with a slower pulse with the onset of winter, but it was still strong, still powerful. Yet he sensed nothing out of place with the storm. He sighed. Ikterru had perked up with the possibility the storm was unnatural.
“No, the storm is natural. But the elloktu’s army is there nonetheless. Ilacqua and the Four Winds revealed it during my last scrying.”
“It doesn’t feel natural. We’ve seen snow on the plains before, but never this early.”
“I agree, but I have received no warnings from the gods.” He drew in a deep breath, scented the air. He could smell the coming snow, the cold crackling in his nostrils. A deep abiding cold, coming from far north, beyond the range of mountains the Alvritshai called the Hauttaeren. “And the storm smells of strength, of permanence. We cannot wait for it to pass. It will be here for days…days in which the elloktu’s army will be attacking the Alvritshai.”
“What of our own? Why should we concern ourselves with the Alvritshai? We should join clan chief Asazi and the rest of the surviving Riders in the east, protect our women and children and what few dwarren remain.”
“If we were not caught up in the middle of the Turning, I would agree with you, Ikterru. But this is a Turning. The world shifts. The Land will shudder, seas will rise, the skies will burn. Already, the storms gather. It will not matter where we run, where we flee. The elloktu and their followers will find us. If we do nothing, they and the forces they unleash will destroy us.” Ikterru had stiffened in affront at the thought that what he suggested could be considered a cowardly flight. His mouth worked as if he’d bitten into a piece of bitter tarrow root. Quotl let that taste settle before continuing. “But you are right to question me. There is a reason we split the responsibility of the Archon and the Cochen, why even they call for meetings in the keevas between their advisors. There is danger in allowing one voice to dictate every decision.”
“You have barely listened to anything I have said.”
Quotl chuckled. “That’s not true. You suggested I send those dwarren who were not Riders, along with most of the shamans, back to Broken Waters. You suggested that all remaining dwarren from all of the clans gather there, beneath clan chief Asazi’s protection. I listened. The drums sound out those orders even now.” Although he knew those drums would end soon, as soon as they headed overland to the north. A niggling thread of doubt worried through him, burying itself in his chest. He didn’t know how badly the elloktu and their creatures had infiltrated the warrens. The pounding of the drums may be echoing down empty and abandoned corridors. Or, like the chambers around the Sacred Waters, halls filled with dead.
Ikterru considered for a moment, then straightened in his saddle, his gaezel pawing at the snow-covered earth before them. “Travel through the snow will be difficult. It is already deep.”
“It will likely get deeper.”
“Ai, likely. That means it will be slow going. And we are not used to the cold.”
Quotl nodded ruefully. His own bones already ached from the exposure. But he heard the warning buried in Ikterru’s tone. Some of the Riders would succumb. The dwarren were used to retreating beneath the earth those few times ice storms had driven this far south. But retreat was not an option. Quotl knew this in his soul.
“The Riders will persevere,” he said.
Ikterru spun his gaezel around, kneeing it toward where the Riders were still emerging from the tunnel onto the plains. Quotl watched him go, thinking of all of the dwarren Riders with him, and all of the dwarren gathering to the south and east in Broken Waters.
“Where is my pipe?”
He began patting his pockets when someone cleared their throat. He spun, startled, to see Azuka holding his pipe out toward him. He bit back a sharp reprimand when he saw that the pipe had already been packed with yetope and that the shaman held the ember box in his other hand.
He plucked the pipe from Azuka’s hand and stuck it in his mouth. “I suppose you’re proud of yourself for anticipating your doddering Archon’s needs,” he said as he leaned forward, Azuka pressing one of the coals from the box to the bowl of the pipe, shielding both from the frigid gusts of wind. Quotl sucked on the end of the pipe until he felt tendrils of the soothing smoke entering his lungs. He drew it in deep, leaned back and closed his eyes as it warmed him from the inside out, dispelling some of the cold. He moaned slightly as he exhaled and drew in deep again.
Azuka dropped the coal back into the box and snapped it shut without comment.
The low throb of the drums from the tunnel behind them ended. The last of the dwarren Riders emerged from the tunnel’s mouth. Quotl watched as they fell in around Ikterru, the Riders’ new leader giving out orders without looking in Quotl’s direction.
Five minutes later, the dwarren Riders headed out into the storm, leaving a wide trail of churned snow behind them.
* * *
Colin stood at the top of the wide tower in Yhnar, a dry, hot wind tugging at his hair and shirt, blowing from the north. It smelled of salt from the Flats, and the scent made his lips burn with the memory of the trek through that barren land. He ran his tongue over them, imagined them cracked and bloody. His hands rested on top of his staff, his feet planted shoulder-width apart. The crenellations of the fat tower cut off his view of the surrounding city of Yhnar, but he could see the river to the north, gleaming in the sunlight, and the rolling hills and grassland beyond, yellow where it wasn’t broken by the browns of plowed fields. He could see the orange dots of pumpkins in one of the nearest fields, another with what he guessed were squash. Small figures hauled wagons through the patches, while others were threshing grain closer to the river. But his attention wasn’t focused on the people of Yhnar or their work. His thoughts were farther north, beyond even the Flats.
“You’ve been standing here for nearly two hours.”
Colin lowered his gaze, but did not turn toward Laurelen. “I’ve been... thinking.”
“Is that all?” He heard her move forward, tensed as she came up beside him. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, her hair catching in the breeze, her chin lifted defiantly. Just as Karen would have looked, if she had survived the encounter with the Shadows.
And somehow been raised up into a royal house. Colin had a hard time visualizing Karen in the dusky, deep red dress Laurelen wore, gold embroidery at the neck and along the sleeves, the cloth so fine it appeared to shimmer in the sunlight. He knew if he touched it, it would be as soft as baby’s hair.
“You’ve been rather reclusive since you arrived here, Colin Harten. If I had to guess, I would say you’ve been avoiding me. Is it because I remind you of Karen, of your lost love?”
“Yes and no. When I look at you, I see her. And not just physically. You have some of her mannerisms—a hand gesture, a lift of your chin, a twist of your lips when you smile. Seeing that, being forced to remind myself that you aren’t her, that she’s gone…it’s painful.”
“I’ve seen you watching me, clutching the vow beneath your shirt. Always from a distance. Which is what I pointed out to Commander Renolds when he came to me with…concerns.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was being so...”
“Obvious?”
Colin couldn’t help smiling. He realized his hands had clenched on the top of his staff and he forced his fingers to relax. “I suppose I should speak to Commander Renolds myself, make certain he realizes there is no threat.”
“Not necessary. I’ve already assured him of that.” She looked toward him for the first time. “You pose no threat, correct?”
“Not to you, no. And not to your people.”
“Good. Now, care to explain what you’ve been looking at for the last two hours?”
He shifted. “Nothing…and everything.”
“That’s the least helpful statement I think I’ve heard from anyone my entire life.”
“That’s exactly what Karen would have said. Although she likely would have slapped me first.”
“Don’t think I didn’t consider it.”
He turned and met her gaze. Her smile didn’t quite fill her eyes; still wary of him.
He glanced behind and found two Legionnaires standing to either side of the open cavity of the stairwell leading down into the tower. Both were watching them carefully, their expressions hard.
He turned back to his search of the hills and the wasteland he couldn’t see beyond them.
“Tell me what’s bothering you,” Laurelen said. “I need to know, especially if it may affect the people of my Province.”
“The Winter Tree has fallen.”
Laurelen stiffened. “How? Who destroyed it?”
“I don’t know. But I sensed its death. Like the Autumn Tree and the Summer Tree, it was already failing, but even so, I expected it to last much longer. Yet the power being wielded by the Wraith using the Well in the Thalloran Wastelands…that power is tremendous. I should never have allowed it to be woken. I should have stopped it.”
He jumped when Laurelen touched his arm.
“From what I’ve gathered speaking to Siobhaen and Eraeth, you fought to stop it.”
“Not hard enough.” In his head, he could hear Walter’s voice, tainted with mocking laughter: You never did open yourself completely to the Lifeblood and all it offered as I did, did you?
“Is that what you’re doing up here? Berating yourself for something that has already happened? Picking at the scabs of a wound that should already have healed? What you should be doing is asking yourself how you can help all of us deal with the situation the way it is now.”
Colin felt as if he’d been slapped, even though Laurelen hadn’t moved. He nearly stepped back, but her hand on his arm kept him from moving. Her words bit deep and he felt a flush of shame, but something in her tone forced him to focus on her more closely. “What’s happened? Why did you come up here? You weren’t looking for me, were you?”
Laurelen let her hand fall from his arm. “No, it wasn’t. I come here to think, or to get away from the court. To relax.”
“So what’s happened? Have you heard from your husband?”
“He says he’s arrived at Temeritt, but the city is surrounded by an army of creatures he would never have thought existed, except that he can see them. GreatLord Kobel has sent out forces to harry them, but there are too many for Kobel to repel, even with my husband’s help. Tarken has kept his forces hidden, but he’s afraid there’s little he can do, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s discovered. There are flying creatures keeping patrol overhead, so he’s been forced to keep his Legion a significant distance from the city itself.”
“Eraeth calls them taeredacs—the flying creatures.”
“Whatever they’re called, he says they remain too high for his archers to take down. They’ve only managed to kill one, when it came low to feed on a dead deer. But the most disturbing news is the Wraith army—and there’s no doubt that’s who they are—has apparently already destroyed Borangst. They’ve hung the GreatLord’s body from the remains of the Autumn Tree, along with several of Alden’s Legion commanders and—” she paused to swallow “—and his wife and children.”
“What about the king? Why hasn’t he sent the Legion to help them?”
“I don’t know. Yhnar is so remote. We rarely know what’s happening in the western Provinces, even Temeritt.”
“You’ve received no envoys from the west? No messages by courier?”
“Not even messenger pigeons. Which is strange in and of itself. We usually receive something from merchants or the other GreatLords a few times a month.”
“The Wraith army must be intercepting them. There must be some other way to find out what’s happening in the west.”
Before he could say anything more, Laurelen straightened. “Perhaps there is.”
Without explanation, she spun and ran for the stairs. The two guards were startled at the sudden movement, but after a confused glance at Colin—who shrugged—followed her down into the tower. Colin trailed after them.
The tower smelled of stone and smoke from the candles, torches, and lanterns that were used to light the interior. Laurelen and her guards wove down through stairwell after stairwell, along corridors and through long narrow rooms, the scents shifting. He knew the servants placed sachets in most of the rooms to hide the mustiness, so one hall smelled of lavender, while the next of roses.
They’d just exited a large hall redolent with pungent cedar when he realized where they were headed: the GreatLord’s personal chapel.
One of the guards stepped ahead of Laurelen and opened the door to the small inner sanctum, closing the door behind Colin. Laurelen hadn’t appeared to notice his presence, her attention fixed on the far side of the room. It was small, perhaps twenty paces wide, with mock columns rounding out from the walls to either side, arching to points on the ceiling at least twice Colin’s height above. A short walkway separated two sets of four pews to either side, leading to a single step up to an empty dais. The wall opposite the door was filled with niches of the same shape, one large central one containing a carved skewed cross draped in a pure white cloth embroidered with Diermani’s Hand, a gold bowl filled with water beneath. The cross was surrounded by tall candles, their light soft and diffuse. Relics filled most of the rest of the niches—a thick tome that Colin presumed was a copy of the Codex, a filigreed brazier, an ivory scepter, multiple chalices…
And one niche that held a single glowing glass orb.
Laurelen headed straight for the orb. “Send for one of the patri.”
“Which one?”
“Any of them. The arrulis if you can find him, but any of them will do.”
“What’s wrong?” Colin asked, moving down the aisle himself. The farther he moved into the room, the deeper the scent of rosemary grew, along with something else. He unconsciously pulled in a deeper breath, tested it...
Blood. The scent beneath the rosemary was blood.
“The Hand of Diermani.” Laurelen halted before the glowing orb. “It’s never glowed before.”
Colin reached out with his senses as he drew near. “There is power here. What is it for?”
“The original intent was communication. There is one in every main city in each Province—here, Temeritt, Borangst, Portstown, Corsair, and Rendell. They were created by the caddoni of the Holy Church of Diermani at great expense, to be controlled and used by the patri and GreatLords in each of the cities in the event of emergencies. And, according to the histories, for a while they were. But as roads were built between the Provinces, as more and more trade developed between us, the GreatLords found themselves using the Hands of Diermani less and less. In some cases, the GreatLords refused to use them for political reasons, since they were under the control of the church. After a while, they fell into disuse. I only know of them because we are a newer Province.” She grimaced. “And because I was forced to read the histories of the church by my mother. She was…extremely faithful.”
