Breath of Heaven, page 8
“That is acceptable to me,” Matthais said, shifting his gaze toward Roland.
“Agreed.”
Justinian’s head had dropped, his gaze locked on the floor. “Summon the dwarren.”
By the time the dwarren had returned, ushered into the chamber by the steward and four more of the Legion, he had straightened in the throne, his bearing regal, verging on imperious. Matthais couldn’t quash a small surge of pride, even if the boy’s actions didn’t bode well for the future.
“We have taken your request under advisement,” Tyrik said, “and would like to send an envoy back with you to discuss what the Cochen needs and what we can provide based on the tenants of the Accord.”
“We need reinforcements,” the shaman said immediately. His gaze shifted to Roland. “We need the Legion.”
The commander stiffened at the intensity of the dwarren’s words, but he said nothing. The shaman traded glances with both of his Riders before turning back to the king, addressing him directly.
“These are the king’s wishes?”
Justinian’s jaw clenched. “They are.”
“Then we accept. It is not enough, and by the time you decide the threat is real it may be too late, but the Turning moves and the Four Winds continue to blow. We will leave in an hour, with or without your envoy.”
He didn’t wait for a response, all three dwarren marching from the chamber, the steward rushing to open the far doors.
“I will arrange for the envoy immediately,” Matthais said, moving to follow. He wanted to make certain it contained some of his own people. Perhaps they could stall the Provinces’ involvement even further.
He looked back when he reached the doors. Roland had shifted closer to the throne, had one hand resting on its back. Both he and Justinian were watching him, the young king angry.
He stilled for a moment, a shiver prickling along his arms. Something had changed, had shifted, and suddenly he felt his carefully cultivated control of the regency slipping through his fingers.
He needed to regain control. Now. Before it slipped any further.
* * *
Roland waited until Matthais had left before pushing back from the throne. His gut seethed with suspicion, but he knew he couldn’t speak to Tyrik about it, nor Justinian. Not yet.
Matthais had said the Wraith armies had come from the east, when he hadn’t been here for the dwarren’s full report. Roland kept replaying the conversation since Matthais’ arrival in his head and he didn’t think Tyrik, the king, or the dwarren had mentioned the armies were attacking from that direction. He supposed Matthais could have deduced that, but he had stated it as if it were fact.
He didn’t know what it meant, but his gut was telling him it was significant. He had never trusted Matthais, had always been at odds with the regent. But he assumed that Davin, Justinian’s father, had planned it that way—Matthais would look out for trade, Tyrik would guard Justinian’s interests, and Roland would support the Legion. That was the way it had worked for the last decade.
But what if Matthais was looking out for more than the Provincial merchants and their interests?
He turned to Justinian. “I’ll send word to the GreatLords in Yhnar, Temeritt, and Borangst immediately to determine if they have heard anything of this army. At the same time, I’d like to order their Legion commanders to begin training exercises. Extensive training exercises.”
Justinian stared at him hard, then glanced toward Tyrik for reassurance. The elderly regent simply sighed. “The Legion is Roland’s purview. I see no reason why we cannot be prepared in case this Wraith army actually exists.”
“Do it,” Justinian said. A flicker of excitement lit his eyes and he grinned, his entire posture changing.
For a brief moment, Roland saw the man—the king—that the boy would become.
* * *
“We must call upon Ilacqua,” Kimannen stated flatly. “You can send scouts to the Four Winds to determine what the Wraiths and their armies are doing, but it will take time for them to gather their information and return with it, even if they use the drums.”
The clan chiefs who were gathered—the Cochen, Tarramic from Quotl’s Thousand Springs, and Iktamman from Silver Grass—all nodded in agreement. Soma, clan chief for Claw Lake, and Oraju’s head shaman had not yet returned from their most recent excursions to the plains with the Riders. This was not a formal Gathering. They were not even meeting in a keeva, merely sitting around a small fire in the warrens on the border between Painted Sands and Broken Waters. Quotl and Tarramic had traveled the last few days to meet with the Cochen and Archon with the Wraith army’s intercepted courier’s papers, which rested on the floor before the Cochen now.
“What of the signs?” Tarramic asked. “What do they say?”
Tarramic looked toward Quotl, but Kimannen cut in quick and sharp. “The signs tell us only what we already know: that the Wraith armies are moving, that they have entered deeper into dwarren lands than we suspected. They do not tell us their purpose. We have sealed the warrens on all fronts, and they have not attacked any of the entrances. They know that, once sealed, they are nearly impossible to break. The stone of the Ancients is thick and heavy, not easy to crack. Even the kell cannot penetrate the warrens.”
Quotl’s eyes narrowed as the Archon spoke. He drew deeply on his pipe, inhaling the yetope smoke, holding it, then exhaling slowly. “All they need do is find one of the breaches that nature had caused and they will have access to the warrens.”
Kimannen scowled. “Those breaches are minor. Armies cannot be moved through such openings.”
“You underestimate the patience and guile of the Wraiths and their following.”
“And you give them too much credit!”
An awkward silence settled over the group. Attanna, head shaman of Silver Grass, had bowed his head, his thick eyebrows drawn close in a frown. The clan chiefs traded glances.
“Do you truly feel the breaches in the minor tunnels are a threat?” Tarramic asked.
Quotl shifted where he sat cross-legged on the floor, the stone beneath him suddenly hard and uncomfortable. An urgency prickled across his skin. He felt the need to move, to be doing something more than simply arguing over trivial matters.
“It is a threat, yes, but not the main threat. Kimannen is correct. The breaches are narrow, although there are enough of them that dismissing them makes me uncomfortable. And not all of them are known. But the main threat is the army that has already entered our lands. What is their purpose? Where are they headed? That is what should be our focus.”
“As I said earlier,” Kimannen muttered.
The Cochen straightened and tapped the orannian courier’s missives. “So you agree that a call to Ilacqua needs to be made?”
“His advice must be sought, yes. Perhaps he will reveal more of the Wraith’s plans than what can be determined through the Riders or the signs of the Land.”
The Archon nodded and began to rise. “I will have the keeva readied and begin my preparations then.”
Quotl’s gut clenched, even though he’d known this moment was coming. He’d been planning for it since he and Tarramic had attacked the orannian group on the plains three nights before.
He carefully set his pipe aside, resting his hands on his knees. “I believe I should accompany you, Kimannen.”
The clan chiefs stilled. Attanna gasped.
Kimannen stiffened. “You are not the Archon. A call to Ilacqua is the Archon’s domain. Only the Archon may enter, only the Archon may commune with the god—”
“I call your status as Archon into question.”
Kimannen recoiled as if struck. His hands tightened into fists; his entire body trembled. “You cannot demand a new Archon. The shamans have not been summoned for a conclave.”
“No, but this is a Turning. Ilacqua speaks to the People through the Archon, acts through the Archon, especially in times of need. I do not believe Ilacqua acted through you at the Break, Kimannen. And in these darkening hours, I do not think we should risk Ilacqua’s aid over the pride and dignity of a single shaman.”
Kimannen’s gaze shot toward the Cochen. “You have not spoken. You would allow this challenge, here, now?”
Oraju’s face grew grim, eyes carefully blank. “I have no say. This is a matter for the shamans.”
Kimannen glanced toward Tarramic and Iktamman, then turned on Attanna. Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed. “Attanna, as head shaman of Silver Grass, you are the only one present to witness this betrayal of the conclave. You must recall this when the conclave next convenes. I would have Quotl stripped of his title as head shaman of Thousand Springs for his temerity, not just here, but at the sealing of the warrens after the Break. He oversteps his bounds.”
Quotl held his breath. He recalled Kimannen’s rise to Archon, so many years before. Attanna had supported Kimannen then, and since, fervently, because Kimannen’s connection to Ilacqua, his strength and power, had been so obvious.
Attanna’s eyes grew pinched. “You may hold much power politically, Kimannen, but I fear your spirit has drifted away from Ilacqua. Quotl is correct. It did not appear that Ilacqua worked through you at the Break, no matter how you may have shaded Quotl’s actions and your own afterwards in the warren before the Riders. Everyone saw, and everyone knows in their heart what they felt on those treacherous slopes.”
Attanna faced Quotl. “You should both enter the keeva and call Ilacqua, see who the god favors with his vision, his insight. I will witness the result, and report to the conclave when it is time for a proper challenge for the Archon’s position.”
Quotl heard the note of warning in Attanna’s voice. If Ilacqua spoke to Kimannen in the keeva, he would have to remove himself as head shaman of Thousand Springs. If he did not, Attanna would make certain his actions were called before the conclave for judgment, with the clan chiefs as witnesses.
“I would request that you ready the keeva then, while Kimannen and I prepare ourselves.”
“Of course.” Attanna rose and gathered the orannian courier’s papers from before the Cochen before moving off. Quotl heard him summon a few other shamans, his orders clipped and hard.
Quotl’s gaze flicked to Kimannen and met the elderly dwarren’s hatred directly. He reached for his pipe, packed a few pieces of the dried yetope leaf into the bowl, and lit it, taking a long pull on the resultant smoke.
* * *
Quotl ducked through the opening of the keeva and the heat and scent of the yetope that had already been placed on the fire struck him. He began to sweat immediately, the small room hotter than usual. This keeva was not as large as those found in the main chambers of the dwarren underground cities, but it retained the same shape: an oval room with a ledge of stone around the edge, a depression for the fire pit in the center. The walls were smoothed ages past by water erosion, stained with the soot and smoke of a thousand fires since. Attanna had filled the far side of the ledge with enough yetope to send Quotl and Kimannen to the spirit world permanently, which may be his intent. He did not look happy. Quotl wondered whether Kimannen had cornered him while they were each supposed to be preparing, and what the Archon had said if he had.
He shoved such concerns aside as he moved opposite Kimannen. He’d attempted to calm himself in the last hour, had secluded himself, spread a sheaf of dried grain on the floor, prostrated himself, and sought the power that pulsed in his chest even now, although quiet and subdued. But the grain had itched, the stalks crackling with every fidget, and the grain heads had gouged into his chest. After twenty minutes of seeking his center by controlling his breathing and focusing on the pounding of his heart, he’d sat up and pulled out his pipe. It had soothed him in moments.
All of that was lost as he met Kimannen’s gaze across the fire pit through the thick smoke.
“You will regret questioning my power,” Kimannen said. His voice throbbed, thick with malice, and Quotl wondered if the smoke had already begun to affect him. It felt as if Kimannen’s voice reverberated throughout the room.
“You should have given up your power at the Break,” he answered, and his own voice shivered through his bones.
“I will leave you,” Attanna interrupted. He placed the rolled sheaf of papers with the orannian scribbles next to the supply of yetope. “I have brought the intercepted courier’s messages. The keeva has been blessed and protected. Once I depart, the door will be sealed until one of you opens it from within.” He stepped around the fire, Quotl shifting to give him room, but hesitated at the rounded door. “May Ilacqua’s eyes fall upon you and help you both to see.”
Quotl grunted at the reprimand in the head shaman’s voice, saw Kimannen scowl, but Attanna hadn’t waited for their reactions. The door closed, cutting off the torchlight from the outside and leaving them with only the red hot coals of the fire pit and the few flames that danced up from it. A moment later, through the thrum of power in his chest, he felt a pulse and knew that Attanna had warded the door against false spirits and interference from outside the room. He ran his hands down through his beard, a nervous gesture he abhorred, then forced himself to settle onto the ledge behind him. On the far side of the fire, Kimannen did the same, after tossing fresh yetope leaves onto the coals.
Slowly, the smoke and heat took effect. Quotl sagged back against the stone wall behind him. His breathing tightened, then relaxed as he adjusted to the stifling chamber. Blood throbbed through his skin beneath the brass armband encircling his right bicep, as if his arm had swelled and was now constricted. Sweat trickled in droplets down his back, chest, and from beneath his armpits. His shirt was already soaked, but he didn’t move to pull it away. Lethargy had set in, his arms leaden. The coals pulsed with a pattern he could almost make out, and the enclosed room suddenly felt larger as the orange-yellow light grew brighter and the shadows thickened. The power that resided in his chest began to fill him, seeping out into his arms, tingling down through his torso and into his legs, suffusing him.
“Why did you not step down at the Break?” Quotl asked, surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to speak. But the heat…he could feel his barriers breaking down, slipping away, even as his sense of the world expanded.
“Because I am the Archon.” Kimannen’s voice came from the smoke, soft and threatening, and Quotl realized that he could no longer see him. What he thought was Kimannen was merely a shadow, nothing more. “I am the voice of Ilacqua. It is my responsibility, has been my responsibility for nearly a generation, my burden to bear.”
Clarity seized Quotl. “You are afraid. Afraid of what will become of you if someone else becomes Archon.”
“No! I am afraid of nothing!”
But Quotl could hear the truth, could feel it in the pulse of the fire. “You are afraid that it will mean Ilacqua has abandoned you.”
“Silence!” Clothes rustled and the coals suddenly flared, revealing Kimannen as he dumped more of the dried leaves onto the flames. A twinge of surprise rippled through Quotl that the Archon could move, and then he noticed the roll of papers Kimannen held in one hand.
Quotl looked into the Archon’s eyes, saw the demons that haunted him there, saw other visions and shadows dancing behind against the wall and at the edges of the room—visions of terror, of beauty, of want and need. The entire room vibrated with them, like a nearly imperceptible hum.
“Let us see who Ilacqua favors now,” Kimannen said. His voice rumbled from his chest like distant thunder. He tossed the rolled pages stolen from the dead courier into the flames and green-black smoke writhed upwards and concealed him. It continued to rise, expanding to block off the other half of the room, lit from beneath by the coals. Within its depths, white tendrils appeared, snaking back and forth, forming patterns on the green-black background. Quotl’s heart squeezed in his chest, pain shooting down his left arm as he recognized the tendrils as the orannian script from the pages, and then the smoke billowed outwards and enveloped him.
He cried out and lurched back, head striking the stone wall behind him, and with his next breath he drew the green-black smoke and the tendrils of script inside him. It burned down into his lungs, harsh and acrid, and he coughed even as he felt himself slide down the wall to the ledge. Heat suffused him, his skin flushed hot with fever, and the power he held within exploded in a dazzling spray of white behind his eyes. He choked on air—
And then the visions began. The Land rushed beneath him, a field of wind-swept grassland, rolling hills and copses, patches of exposed rock and the deep pockets of cisterns and springs. He soared over it all in the body of a hawk, the shadow of his wings beneath him. The sun settled into the horizon to the west, dusk falling, but ahead he caught the movement of riders, five of them, on horseback, driving to the northwest. He followed them, banking in the winds, until firelight sparked on the plains farther distant: campfires, hundreds of them. He ascended and pulled ahead of the riders, circled over the Wraith army that waited below. A dark stain interrupted the silver-limned grasslands to the east, and Quotl recognized the sacred forest that had once housed the urannen. But the hawk continued to climb, its wings spreading wide, and in the vision the Land opened up before him. His sight expanded to encompass all of the plains and beyond. He saw the Wraith armies waiting beneath the walls of the human city of Temeritt, the destruction it had already wrought on the Province surrounding it, the skeletal remains of the Autumn Tree, and his heart quailed. To the north, he spied the remnants of the army the dwarren had fought at the Break, half the size it had been when the dwarren sealed the warrens behind them. As if scorched into the earth, he saw two paths breaking away from each army, one from the Break and one from Temeritt, converging on the plains and striking westward, turning north, and he realized the truth: the Wraith army was marching for Caercaern, for Alvritshai lands, for the Winter Tree.
