Embers of a Broken Throne Read online

  The warrior halted instantly. With a wave of his hand, Ancel dismissed it. Stone made to appear like metal and flesh melted into the cobbles and the dirt beneath.

  “What’s happened?” Ancel braced himself for the news.

  “We’re missing over a hundred folk, horses, and some supplies.”

  “Deserters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who exactly?” He tried to remain calm but could do little to prevent the building anger.

  “Several Ashishin who joined us after the Iluminus, a few Dosteri, and a number of folk from the two villages we passed on our way here.”

  Ancel let out a deep, shuddering breath. “We warned everyone of our response should this happen again, did we not?” His father had hung three deserters prior to today. “I promised to make future thieves pay. And this is their response? Put together a search party, find them, and report back to me.”

  “How far or long do you want us to range?”

  “Three days,” Ancel said. “If after the second day you don’t find them, then return. It’s past time we left this place.” The Green Wastes surrounding Aldazhar had taken its toll in lives already. One of Ostania’s many storms had forced them to seek shelter in the ruins, but he was anxious to finish their journey. He had hoped for Jerem’s return, but with it appearing unlikely any time soon he would convince his father to move on.

  “See you in three days, then.” Mirza nodded to him, gave Irmina a slight bow, and left.

  “Since we’re leaving, there’s something I must do.” She held his hand and met his gaze, her golden brown eyes burrowing into his.

  He knew she didn’t need his approval, but she sought it anyway. Whether out of respect or love made no difference. He appreciated the gesture. “If I said no, would you still go?”

  “At this point, I would. You haven’t given a real reason for asking me not to head there, just some vague concern over the essences.”

  On two occasions she’d told him she wanted to visit Aldazhar’s Travelshaft to see if a zyphyl was still there. And he’d begged her not to go. All because of the essences.

  He had no good explanation for what he saw when he opened his Matersense. The best way to describe it was that the ordered patterns formed by the essences were disturbed, almost as if they were unraveling. Neither she nor any other Ashishin or Dagodin reported anything out of the ordinary. The situation made him wish for Ryne’s presence. They could have discovered if the disruption was visible only to the Eztezians, like auras, but his mentor had retreated to cover their trail when the shadeling attacks became too frequent to be coincidence.

  Thinking of it now made him reach out to the essences around him. The subtle changes were there, and for all of a moment he wished for the sense that said shadelings had passed through a rift from Hydae. An entire month had passed since the last time he’d felt such a crossing, had needed to hunt. A part of him craved the thrill of those kills.

  “If it will make you worry less, I’ll take a few Ashishins and two dozen Dagodins.” She looked up into his face. “Or I won’t go … if you tell me what happened to my aunt in Randane.”

  For a moment he contemplated telling her. Only a moment. “You can take the Matii.” He expected another argument over him treating her as if she was soft, but all he received was a smirk.

  “The Matii it is then.” She released his hand.

  Over the months, she had inquired after Jillian, wanting to know if her aunt had survived Randane. And every time he would state he lost sight of her in the heat of the battle. It wasn’t exactly a lie, nor was it the entire truth. He’d seen her aunt as she fought Mirza and Kachien, but in order to win his battle he’d directed his attention to Mensa. At the end he’d burned down the entire city and most of what was in it. He saw no way Jillian could have survived.

  Time and again, often after a lovemaking session, he’d attempted to tell Irmina. He would open his mouth, but the words would fail him. Remaining silent felt right. In her quest for vengeance against his parents when she thought they’d been responsible for her family’s demise, she had left him to become one of the Tribunal’s deadliest assassins. To compound matters, Father confessed to killing one of her ancestors, Garrick Nagel, but neither admitted or denied any guilt in her parents’ deaths. Although she put on a brave face, the expression she wore at times when she looked at his father said she hadn’t fully reconciled herself with the possibility that Stefan and Thania weren’t at fault. And now he himself had killed her aunt. How could he reveal such a secret?

  The thought ate at him. He could picture the shock on her face, the pain in her eyes. She would leave him. He didn’t think he could handle that. Not again.

  At times Irmina claimed that if her aunt still lived she would hunt her down for what she’d done to the Eldanhill refugees. For her betrayal. But a part of him felt it was simply a boast, a way for her to cope with losing the last person in her family.

  His memories of Randane returned him to his current dilemma: the essences, shade in particular. Its corruption was causing the instability he saw at times now, the disruption in the tapestry, the balance the elements required.

  The elements of Mater must exist in harmony. The first Principle echoed in his head.

  The problem was more prevalent wherever there was a concentration of essences like at a Travelshaft. Again he wished for the presence of Ryne or Jerem. Above all others he could trust them with his concerns. They would understand, perhaps provide answers, or good advice at the very least.

  He let out a slow breath, hoping to relax. If what he felt along his link held true, Ryne was still two days away. It seemed like forever. Although there hadn’t been a report of any shadelings in almost a month since they arrived at Aldazhar, he wanted to be away from the place.

  “Sometimes it’s good to share those thoughts,” Irmina said.

  He shook himself. “Not these. You have enough to worry over with the Travelshaft. I wouldn’t want to add my burden to yours.”

  “Even if I wanted it?”

  “Even if you wanted it.”

  With a sigh and a shake of her head, she turned and walked away. He followed, already preparing himself for a sleepless night.

  They were within sight of the first torches and lamps that marked the encampment at one of Aldazhar’s squares when Ancel spotted a distortion in the air, a wavy haze like heat rising off a desert. And then it was gone. He froze, one hand slipping to the sword at his hip.

  “Is everything fine?” Eyes narrowed, Irmina had also stopped, her hand drifting to her weapon’s hilt.

  Squinting, he peered around, opening his Matersense. The usual patterns of essences swirled around him in half a hundred bands of color. As he’d come to expect of late some seemed out of place, pieces of a puzzle that did not fit quite right. At least they weren’t the chaotic disturbances that occurred when a shadeling crossed from Hydae. He breathed easier at that last.

  “I thought I saw something,” he said.

  “Where?”

  He pointed.

  She stared in the same direction before shrugging. “There’s nothing there.” Irmina shook her head. “All this worrying and practicing with little rest is taking its toll on you. Take a break for once, let the scouts earn their keep.”

  After one last glance around, he nodded. They continued toward the gathering of tents, pack animals, and wagons, but he couldn’t help feeling as if he’d missed something.

  Chapter 2

  The Alzari prisoner hung upside down from the tree branch by way of a rope around his feet. His hands were secured behind his back. Black veins showed through skin lacking the typical bronzed Alzari complexion. Pale skin. Corpselike. The man was alive though, if barely. Frost crusted his moustache and beard, and he gave the occasional involuntary shudder that made Ryne wonder if it was from pain, the cold, or the taint.

  Ryne had captured a darkwraith also, but the creature that had at one time been a man had offered nothing beside
s guttural snarls and curses in Hydaen. Discovering its pain centers had been most intriguing. With a body made up of misty shade and incorporeal flesh, some prodding was necessary. Literally. Igniting the Etchings on his greatsword and sliding the blade into the torso had worked quite nicely. In the end, the darkwraith had succumbed, dissipating into ash after too much torture.

  The Alzari provided a more malleable source for information. Borne from hardship, they relished lives that would break most people. Partial transformation added to his survivability, unlike the darkwraiths who were wholly of the shade. The cauterized black stubs that remained of his fingers and ears, the various scars on his chest, and his mutilated hamstrings were proof. The Alzari had held fast despite his injuries, but he would break. Ryne knew it beyond a doubt.

  Sitting on the ground before the fire, he contemplated his discoveries thus far. Shadelings were entering Denestia through rifts, but their numbers were increasing more rapidly than should have been possible. Either one or several groups of them had been following the caravan. So had a few Matii sent by the Tribunal. He had dealt with both issues for now but hoped the Alzari could offer more insight into the shadeling increase.

  Of greater concern was the slow deterioration of shade essences. The change didn’t do much to affect the outcome of his Forges, but the voices within Mater had become more volatile, sometimes still pervasive despite the protection offered by the Eye. They even seemed to require a greater abundance of sela in exchange for the power used.

  The Eye. He remembered when he would call it the Shunyata. A hint of a smile touched his lips. Ancel’s company was rubbing off on him. Much the same way his own presence had done to Sakari.

  The thought of his friend and bodyguard turned the smile into a sneer. Kahkon would pay for Sakari’s death. And so much more. The last two meetings with Sakari rose fresh in Ryne’s mind, made him wish his friend sat on the opposite side of the fire. He’d give up a part of himself if he could have that back, a chance to tell Sakari all he knew, to prevent the netherling’s sacrifice over knowledge Ryne already possessed. Ryne cut off his line of thought. The pain was near unbearable, and uncontrolled thoughts were dangerous.

  The Alzari sputtered awake, drawing in a ragged breath. He looked around, eyes wild. They bulged when his gaze fell upon Ryne. He began to writhe frantically, the rope swinging with his momentum.

  Expressionless, Ryne watched him, turning a rabbit on a spit over the fire. Juices dripped and sizzled, the smell tantalizing. He took a sip of kinai juice from his water pouch, welcoming the near immediate rush of revitalization the sweet fruit provided.

  Some idea must have dawned on the Alzari. The man stopped his squirming, black eyes in a pasty face becoming cold pits. His brow furrowed in concentration.

  Smiling, Ryne sat back with the finished rabbit still on the stick. He ignored his prisoner, blew on the meat a few times, and then ripped off a chunk with his teeth. The flesh was succulent, lacking in spices, but tasty nonetheless. Ryne closed his eyes and chewed, letting out a little contented sigh. Almost two full days without food while hunting prey could take a toll on a man. Even one like himself.

  “No number of attempts will make any Forge you try more successful than the first time,” Ryne said, opening his eyes.

  The prisoner began his squirming again, rocking from side to side. Incoherent mumbles spilled from him.

  Ryne continued to eat, chewing slowly. He had all the time in the world. When he finished he stood.

  “I, on the other hand,” he said, cloak falling from his shoulders, “am unaffected by the Warping.” He removed his fur jacket, exposing the snug-fitting leather armor beneath. Forging, he set his Etchings alight.

  The Alzari gaped, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead despite the night’s chill. “No, no, please, no,” he wailed.

  The ghost of a smile curled Ryne’s lips at what the man must be seeing, the inability of the brain to process the act it took in. Here was a man Forging in the middle of an area with Warped essences. The feat should not have been possible. Unless this same man was an Eztezian or something more. The tapestry of Etchings covering Ryne’s body provided the final clue as to whom the prisoner faced.

  Ryne had been dressed as a farmer, bundled in furs and wool against the weather, when he first met the Alzari. After the previous torture session he no longer needed the guise. Fear was more important. The prisoner had to know his fate.

  A candle flame of pure light essence appeared at the tip of Ryne’s forefinger. He made a show of approaching the man with that one finger extended. “What you felt before is nothing compared to what you will suffer now.”

  “You, you will kill me anyway.”

  “I will, but you can dictate whether you die quick or let it last for months.”

  “Dear Amuni, help me,” the Alzari prayed. “The shade is my guide and my redemption, it leads me to all things great. I follow in Your most pious footsteps—”

  “Perhaps he hears you, but he cannot help you.” Ryne extended his middle finger, the two digits forming a V. He Forged an identical flame of pure shade on its tip. “His essence is also mine.”

  The prisoner opened his mouth to speak, but Ryne held up his other hand and stopped him.

  “The shade offers you peace, joy, some semblance of contentment, doesn’t it?” Ryne asked.

  A nod.

  “With the light I could cause you much pain.” Ryne wiggled his forefinger.

  The Alzari nodded again and swallowed.

  “Or I could simply leech the shade from you. Like so.” Ryne Forged again, this time, drawing from the essences that suffused the Alzari’s body. It was akin to being submerged in filth. The voices of Mater rose in his head, screaming. He thrust the power into his Etchings. Prima consumed them.

  The Alzari cried out, a sound so drenched in agony and fear that Ryne felt it.

  “Please, no more, no more.” The Alzari’s voice was a mere croak. “I’ll tell you what you wish to know.”

  So Ryne asked the first question, and the man talked. He told of daemons and Skadwaz creating Wraithwoods, of harvesting villages and towns for sela and for recruitment into the armies of Amuni’s Children, of a strike into the heart of the Broken Lands, and a plan to conquer Benez. When the prisoner finished he had a resigned expression on his face, his eyes pleading.

  “That is all of it?”

  “All I know, yes.” A solitary tear trickled down the Alzari’s face.

  Ryne believed him. He chopped off the man’s head, ignited the remains, and left them burning. Gazing south, he touched the link to Ancel. It was time to return.

  Chapter 3

  “We leave in the morning.” Sitting cross-legged, relishing the fire’s warm, Irmina lowered the book she’d been reading. The entire day had passed and Ancel had yet to offer some protest or make demands of her again. In fact, he hadn’t brought up her expedition to the Travelshaft. Not once.

  “I would say be careful, but you will have more than enough protection.” He was lying on the furs they used for a bed. The artwork of Etchings covering his body glistened in the lamplight, colors, scenes, people, and animals seeming as if they could climb off his skin.

  “So you’re not worried then?”

  He sat up. She could tell where much of the Etchings on his chest were incomplete. Those on his right arm were seamless in comparison, not a spot of skin showing. His physique was quickly filling out with the rigorous exercise regimen he employed and his constant sword practice. He wasn’t quite a match for Ryne’s massive shoulders, arms and chest yet, but if he kept growing, it would be a close thing. Whether Ancel would grow to Ryne’s eight feet remained to be seen.

  “I’ll always be worried.” He gazed at her as if drinking in her appearance, making her face grow heated. “But you’ve seen death even before I was born. You might be more skilled with a blade than I, and in Mater you’re among the strongest here. Only a fool would think you incapable of protecting yourself. My worry
is more because I love you and can’t help but think I’d go insane if something should happen to you.”

  “I feel the same way,” she admitted. “Except for the little part where you question whether I’m better than you with a sword. One day we shall settle that question.”

  He laughed, long and hearty. “I look forward to it. Now, continue reading to me.”

  A smile on her face, she returned her attention to the page. The book was called Travels in a Foreign Land, chronicling some Granadian scribe’s time spent in Ostania.

  “Of all the races, the Desorin are the most reclusive. And the strangest. I once thought the Cardians and Astocans held that distinction with the slits on the sides of their necks that they use to breathe and sense emotions, or even the Sven and Svenzar with their skin of stone or metal. But Desorin flesh is of a substance like the very ash that coats their home in places and frequently falls from the sky in the Broken Lands’ many firestorms. How they see is a mystery as their eyes are the purest white and lack irises. Their ears are nothing but holes with some type of skin like a lid that opens and closes. I cringe to think of them now.”

  “If you’d read this to me two years ago I would think it a joke,” Ancel said.

  Irmina smiled and continued to recite. “The Banai, with whom they trade, claim the Desorin are the greatest sailors to ever roam the seas, but I cannot see how that could be. Their land is covered in fire and ash, the only available water drawn from underground rivers and lakes. So how would they sail? The only ocean available to them is the Lost Sea. And it isn’t navigable. Not even the Banai or Cardians, both renowned for their prowess on the oceans would dare sail so far past the Sea of Clouds that they would enter the Lost Sea.

  “The idea also goes against their complexion. Both the Banai and Cardians are swarthy peoples from their time spent in the sun, on the decks of their ships. The Desorin show no such stain.”

  “Does he mention their fighting prowess?” Ancel asked.