Breath of Heaven, page 44
Orren had believed she could be healed, could be saved. He’d believed she still had a choice.
But in the lurid red pulse of the Rose, she could see the black swirl of the sarenavriell beneath the skin of her outstretched arms. More darkness than light. She had been tainted and lost long before.
Tears streaming down her face, Tuvaellis released her pent up breath in a deep, heavy sigh and tipped the case.
The stone dropped into the pool with barely a sound, a ripple spreading across the smooth surface even as the harsh blue light of the stone sank toward the bottom. It curved toward the heart of the Rose as it fell, as if drawn to the light. Tuvaellis took one step back from the pool’s edge as she felt the energy of the stone spike. Then it began to drink in the power of the Rose greedily, the energy building with every breath, escalating higher and higher. It sucked it into its heart, its bluish light expanding, filling the pool until it outshone even the blood-red fire of the Rose, the swirling rings of fire engulfed by blue flame. Tuvaellis sobbed, half in awe, half in terror, as the energy that suffused her, the energy that had somehow cascaded and expanded to something much larger than anything she’d ever felt before suddenly pulsed even higher—
And then contracted down to a central point at the heart of the pool, at what she knew was the heart of the stone.
Walter had told her to run. He’d told her to drop the stone into the source of the Rose, then halt time and run.
But she didn’t. She didn’t want to. She didn’t think, even if she had, that it would have mattered. She could never have escaped this much energy, this much power. It was unfathomable.
She didn’t move as the stone and all of its gathered energy exploded.
20
Matthais emerged from the stairwell of the main tower of Corsair’s palace into the brisk wind blowing from the north, the air smelling of ice and pine, a distinct difference from the usual scent of brine and dead fish wafting up from the bay. He paused to catch his breath—the last stretch of stone steps was rather steep—and scanned the northern horizon, where the storm that had loomed for days appeared to have stalled out, its dark shadow lingering just within sight. He imagined its black swirling clouds covered the entire breadth of the Alvritshai nation, the northern parts of dwarren lands, and even the Province of Rendell.
Corsair’s skies remained clear.
He squinted up into the pale winter blueness above, then turned toward the dovecote on the far side of the flat expanse of roof. To the west, over the stone ridgeline of the cliffs and beyond the thin spire called the Needle, he could see whitecaps on the ocean’s waves, stretching all the way to the horizon. Below, to his left, the city of Corsair tumbled down the low hills, smoke rising from the chimneys. Ships filled the bay, bells clanging faintly, whistles trilling. Closer in, shouts echoed up from the courtyard along with the clang of weapons from the practice yard, a sound that had become constant since Roland’s departure with King Justinian for the south and his orders to remain ready. Matthais frowned, his annoyance at Roland, Tyrik, and Justinian unabated. But he had stalled their discovery of the Wrath armies as long as he could, so he shrugged, fingering the multiple tiny messages rolled into cylinders he carried in his pocket. Since Roland’s departure, he had had the run of the entire palace. Even Tyrik hadn’t been as much of a nuisance as usual. In fact, he hadn’t seen Tyrik in the last few days except from a distance, the councilor and once-regent passing through the halls with an intent, focused expression.
Matthais had used his fellow councilor’s distraction to his own advantage. He’d increased his control and influence with the lords and merchants of Corsair and the surrounding Provinces, not to mention met with one of the premier trading companies of the Court of Andover. He’d negotiated a rather lucrative contract, one that would help solidify his hold on the Provinces once he seized control from Justinian with the Wraiths’ help.
He was so caught up in thoughts of his plans for Corsair and the rest of the GreatLords—whoever remained standing after the Wraith armies passed through anyway—that he had nearly reached the door of the dovecote before he heard voices.
He halted abruptly, hand stilled as it reached for the dovecote’s latch. Beneath the coos and rustling feathers from the pigeons and other messenger birds housed here, the caretaker muttered, “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Send this one immediately. It needs to reach Goran and the king before they depart for Temeritt. If they haven’t left already.”
Matthais snatched his hand back, his heart thudding hard once in his chest as he recognized Tyrik’s voice.
“As you command, it shall be done.”
“Good. And you’re certain no messages have arrived from the king? Nothing from Portstown or Rendell?”
“Nothing, councilor.”
Floorboards creaked and one of the birds fluttered as if startled. Matthais tensed. “Recall what I said earlier. We know of your collusion with Matthais. If you are keeping something from me, from the king …”
Matthais’ hand clenched into a fist over his chest. They knew! But how? He’d been careful. He’d covered his tracks at every stage, made certain Tyrik was busy or distracted—
Except Tyrik had said “we.” Which meant it went deeper than simply Tyrik. Roland must be involved as well. Which meant he’d been discovered months ago.
What did they know? What could they know? If they’d managed to compromise his communications link through the caretaker, they could know nearly everything. Most of his messages had been couched in vague terms—a necessary evil when you only had space for a few words—but they could surmise much from those messages over time. It all depended on how far back the caretaker had been delivering messages to them.
“—never in collusion against the king,” the caretaker whimpered, and Matthais snapped his attention back to the dovecote and the roof. “You must believe me. The councilor brought the messages and I sent them out.”
“You passed all of the messages received into Matthais’ hands, even those meant for the king. That in itself is treason. So I ask again, no messages have arrived from the king or the other GreatLords?”
“No, no messages from the king. I swear on the king’s name.”
“Very well. I trust you will continue to bring me all messages you receive or send out for Matthais.”
“Of course, councilor.”
Footsteps sounded, approaching the dovecote’s door. Matthais reacted without thought, stepping quietly back and around the side of the small cottage-sized building. He’d just rounded the corner when the dovecote’s door creaked open and he heard both men step out onto the roof. Risking a look, he watched Tyrik move toward the stairwell, the short, thin, grizzled form of the caretaker halting a few steps from the doorway. The older man clutched a pigeon between his hands. As soon as Tyrik began descending the steps, the caretaker brought the pigeon up close to his mouth and whispered something to it, too softly for Matthais to hear, and then tossed the bird into the sky. It fluttered away, wings flapping violently as it spun around twice as if orienting itself, then took off to the south. Sunlight winked on the tiny metal capsule strapped to its leg.
The caretaker eyed the bird silently, then nodded in approval to himself before heading back inside the dovecote.
Matthais hesitated, listening to the caretaker as he rumbled around inside the small building, the birds that were his wards occasionally muttering throaty protests as they were disturbed. The caretaker muttered under his breath, the mildly angry words punctuated by deep, regretful sighs.
A few minutes later, Matthais moved back around to the dovecote’s door, opening it hard enough its flimsy wooden frame cracked against the side of the building.
Inside the dovecote, the caretaker gave a startled cry, a few of the pigeons attempting to take panicked flight in their cages.
Matthais stepped into the dusty shadows inside, split by shafts of light filled with drifting motes and downy feathers. The sharp ammonia smell of bird shit assaulted his nose, concentrated within the confines of the building. Cages lined the walls, the birds behind the wire and wood frames cocking their heads to look at him as he halted just inside the entrance. The few who had been startled settled back down, while the caretaker squinted at him from where he’d shrunk against the back wall.
“I have some messages that I need to send immediately.”
“Of course, councilor. Where to?”
“Two to Portstown, one to Rendell, and another to Borangst.”
“Of course, sir.” The older man—shorter than Matthais by at least a hand—bustled forward and began retrieving birds from various cages. “Do you have the capsules?”
Matthais reached into his pocket and produced the messages, the capsules clinking together as he set them on a small table near the door, their ends color coded to the specific locations. He watched silently as the man worked.
After a long moment, the caretaker realized he hadn’t left yet. “Was there something else, my lord? There’s no need for you to stay. I can handle it from here.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. There’s nothing else that needs my attention at the moment. Besides,” he said, letting his gaze drift from the fidgeting man—he didn’t even know his name, he suddenly realized—to the birds in the nearest cage, “I think I’ll stay to watch you release the pigeons. I rarely allow myself such small pleasures.”
The caretaker licked his lips, his gaze flicking toward the messages waiting on the tray. Matthais could almost visibly see him trying to figure out how to satisfy Matthais, while at the same time keep his word to Tyrik. Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead, but he drifted slowly to the messages, picked them up, retreated back to his pigeons, and began attaching them to the pigeons’ legs.
Matthais poked a finger through the wires of the cage before him, the pigeon inside eyeing it warily. “I’ve always loved the way pigeons move. And their soft cooing. So soothing.” He withdrew his finger. “Are the messages ready to send?”
The caretaker swallowed before answering. “Yes, councilor.” He held up a small, portable cage with the five pigeon’s already inside.
“Then let’s release them.”
The man merely nodded, the sweat dripping down his face now. He held the smaller cage before him like a shield and tentatively moved past Matthais and out the door. Matthais fell into close step behind him, stepping to one side when the man stopped in the middle of the roof and set the cage down. He knelt and, with a quick twist, threw the top of the small cage back. Four of the birds took immediate flight, circling twice before heading off in slightly different directions. The caretaker had to shoo the fifth one from the cage with a wave of his hand, but it followed the others after a moment.
As soon as they were mere specks against the blue sky, Matthais turned to the caretaker.
“Now, tell me how long you’ve been passing my messages along to Tyrik.”
“Wha—what do you mean?” the man stammered.
Matthais stepped forward, the caretaker shooting a panicked glanced toward the dovecote, as if he’d be protected somehow if he managed to reach it. But Matthais was positioned between the man and the small hut, forcing the caretaker to back away, towards the far side of the rooftop... and the stairs, Matthais suddenly realized. But if the man tried to flee, he’d simply have the Legion arrest him and his family.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said, still advancing. “You’re passing along my messages to Tyrik, perhaps even to Commander Roland. Personal messages. Private messages.”
“But it was by order of the king!”
“I’ve been sending messages for the king for years from this rooftop! Because Tyrik and Roland couldn’t be bothered. I thought we had an unspoken understanding, if not a formal agreement. Obviously, I was wrong.”
The caretaker had backed up nearly to the stairs. Matthais reached out and grabbed hold of the man’s serviceable but worn shirt, the caretaker emitting a startled gasp. He struggled as Matthais jerked him close. “How long you’ve been handing my messages to Tyrik?”
The man’s hands grappled with Matthais’, but he couldn’t break the councilor’s hold. Whimpering, he opened his mouth to speak—
And then his terror-stricken eyes shifted off of Matthais face and over his shoulder, slipping from abject fear to slack-jawed wonder.
Matthais shook the man to recapture his attention, but failed.
A flicker of light caught at the corner of his eye and he turned to look out beyond the cliffs, to the ocean beyond.
For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Light flickered across the western horizon in flashes, as if lightning were playing out beyond the skyline, too distant to hear. But the sky was clear in that direction, only a few shreds of clouds visible. And the light wasn’t the pale blue of heat lightning, but a harsh, erratic white that hurt Matthais’ eyes. He’d never witnessed anything like it in his life. The few clouds were suffused from beneath by the pulses, which continued flickering like the flames of a fire—an intense, white-hot fire—before they began to die down. His fingers slackened in their grip on the caretaker’s shirt, and the man’s struggles eased as they watched the display in silence.
Matthais found himself thinking of the Alvritshai Wraith he had helped secure passage across the Arduon so many months before. “What have you done to Andover?” he murmured to himself, as the flashes of light ended, leaving nothing behind but a low burning light above the dark blue line of the ocean’s edge, like a cold, white sunset. And then even that died.
The caretaker saw his opportunity and acted.
Twisting free of Matthais’ clenched hand, he lurched toward the stairwell.
Matthais spun, one hand reaching out to seize the man again. But then, instead of grabbing for the man’s shirt, he placed his hand flat against the caretaker’s turned back—
And shoved.
The caretaker tripped on his own foot, staggered one step, two...
And plummeted forward into the mouth of the stairwell. Matthais heard a barked cry of denial, then the thuds of a body hitting and tumbling down stone. Then the sounds halted and silence fell, broken only by the bells and bustle of Corsair and the ships in the harbor.
Matthais moved carefully to the height of the stairs and stared down at the crumpled form at their base. Even from here he could see that the caretaker’s neck had been snapped, his arms and legs askew.
He glanced back toward the western horizon. He didn’t know what the strange white lights portended, but it didn’t matter. Not here in Corsair anyway. What mattered was Tyrik and his interference. He’d ignored the elderly councilor long enough. Too long, obviously. He would have to be dealt with.
He descended the stairs, sidestepping the caretaker’s body.
He’d let one of the guard or another servant discover the man. He had preparations to make, and a certain meddling councilor to kill.
* * *
“Tamaell Thaedoren!”
Moiran turned at the ragged shout, her horse plodding forward through the drifted snow trampled mostly flat by those who forged a way ahead of her in the long column of men, women, and children slowly making their way southward out of Alvritshai lands. The group had grown, nearly tripled, since they’d left Artillien behind, picking up families, soldiers, and supplies in each town they passed. Moiran had long ago lost count of exactly how many the contingent contained, especially after they’d reached Hallieas in Baene, where the insufferable Lady Sovaeren had joined them. Since then, others from House Ionaen and Redlien had been added, with rumors that refugees from Uslaen and Nuant weren’t far behind. And with the refugees came tales of horror from the Wraith army’s attacks. Those from Ionaen and Redlien had been hit the worst, the dark army forging a path of destruction through their lands as they made their way to Caercaern. But the army hadn’t waited long to begin attacking the surrounding towns once they’d seized Caercaern. According to the reports, every House had been attacked, and the Wraith army was only spreading outward from their central location, driving farther east, west, and south from the capital city. Thousands had been killed, and thousands more were dying even now as the snows continued to fall in sporadic bursts. The storm had only augmented the misery. Even though the first initial blast of cold had settled into something less violent, the cloud cover hadn’t broken and snow showers or spats of ice were common. Some within the column were succumbing to the weather, the acolytes of the Order of Aielan pausing every evening to gather the bodies and give them to Aielan’s Flames.
Moiran had attended the first few nights, but as the days continued and the number of bodies grew, she found she didn’t have the emotional strength.
What made her even more heartsick were the people in the towns and villages they passed who refused to join them, choosing instead to wait out the storm, ignoring the warnings given by the acolytes that the storm wouldn’t end any time soon and that the Wraith army would eventually make its way far enough south to attack them. Most of those who stayed were simply stubborn, unwilling to give up the life they knew, to accept change. But some of them...
Some of them had simply given up hope completely. Moiran could see the despair in their eyes, and could think of nothing to say or do. Standing beside her eldest son as he spoke to those they could find in the town square or on a snow-cloaked frozen field, she looked into their lost faces and felt their desperation creeping into her soul.
