Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood (10 page)

“Can you teach me the rest of the Chronicle?”

“One day,” Ryne said, “but be warned, the Chronicles are not always what they seem. Keep that in mind. More than one Matus claimed to know how to harness harmony. All of them died. In fact, I killed one myself.

“Now, back to the Eye. Hopefully, you have a clearer understanding of why you must remain under its influence when Forging. Even those not strong enough to communicate with the essences are still affected by them.”

Ancel nodded. “That, I found out from Kachien also. It’s the reason for the Pathfinders. They hunt whoever loses control.”

“As much as I disagree with what they do, it’s necessary,” Ryne said.

“Should I be in the Eye when I see auras around people?”

Ryne smiled. “I’m glad you asked. No. Since you’re new to your power, they may appear now at either extreme of emotion, but eventually they’ll be as natural as breathing and always with you. They’re different for those who can sense them. I couldn’t begin to tell you how to discern who means well from who means harm. You learn that on your own.”

“I already have,” Ancel said.

“Very good. One thing to consider is that the auras are more than just signs to tell of a thing’s intentions. The same way your body and mind are conduits so additional Mater can pass into you, there must be something to keep the essences in. To store them. A Matii’s aura does that. A strong enough aura prevents Mater from leaving. Forgers eventually learn to manipulate that storage. It’s what limits your power normally. You can’t just draw on the essences and use them. They must pass through you first into the same pool you use for the Eye.”

Ancel nodded. “So if we’re as strong as you say how is it that we can’t defeat the Skadwaz once and for all?”

“In ways,’ Ryne said, “they are our opposites, Matii enhanced by Amuni to combat our Etchings. They possess their own way of wielding Mater, at times better than we do.”

Ancel found the revelation difficult to fathom. “How’s that possible?”

“Because they were made with a closer connection to the shade than humanly possible. I doubt I could consider them human or even of the Nether. Like the world Amuni created for them, they fall somewhere between.”

Ancel took it all in before asking, “Ryne?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever Forged outside of the Eye?”

“Yes. Many times.”

Ancel was speechless. First, Kachien and her suffering at the whim and need of the essences, and then losing his mother. Now, Ryne. How cruel could life be? He embraced his Matersense and waited. But no voices echoed in his head with promises of power.
I don’t care how long it takes me, I’ll find a way to master you, every single one of you.

A whisper rose then, but instead of words, he swore he heard brushes of mocking laughter.

“I shall be blunt with you,” Ryne said, breaking Ancel from his thoughts. “There may come a time you will be tempted to do the same. In those cases, always draw on your Etchings first. Right now, you worry about shadelings, daemons, maybe even the Skadwaz, but there are far worse things that walk world.”

C
hapter 14

R
yne walked alongside his ward in silence, shortening his steps so he would not outpace the young man. Ancel’s lack of response to his revelation said he understood the implications. Ryne let out a breath. When he’d recited the Tenets and Principles, and unleashed the Etching of the Guardians to save Castere, he broke the seal keeping Denestia’s essences at bay. In turn, his actions resumed the effects of his impending madness. The process was irreversible.

Bertram, or Voliny, as he called himself, had given him little choice. The man had been an Eztezian. Bertram’s history trance proved as much. Now, he was dead. Another Eztezian dead. One more guardian gone. Ryne shook his head in resignation.

Who held such power as to be able to control one such as himself and Bertram? Surely, it could not be a Skadwaz. A netherling maybe, but that helped prove the contract no longer bound them.

Did the Nine finally walk the land?
He frowned. For millennia, there had been factions among the netherlings: those in support of the gods’ release, those who thought man should govern themselves, and those who sought to become gods. The latter was the Nine. The major battles between them had always remained in the Nether and Hydae, while they manipulated people to do their bidding. Until now, it appeared. Although Ancel had unleashed the power gathered by their use of the Iluminus sects and constant war, the essences still weren’t strong enough to usurp the gods. Not yet. Still, at the rate events were spiraling, not many stood between the Nine and their advent into Denestia, if one or two of them weren’t here already.

Unless he missed his count, only eight of the original Eztezians remained, all with the knowledge Ancel required to master his Etchings. Eight where hundreds once lived. All that remained of those who knew the truth about the Chronicles, who had the power to make a difference in the wars to come. Locating them weren’t his greatest worry. From what he felt of them, they still kept to their old haunts, although several appeared to be heading north. If time allowed, Ancel would learn their exact locations, but time always had its own agenda. To complicate the situation even more, convincing them to unseal themselves and help Ancel would be near impossible.

That was still better than the alternative. If any of the Eztezians died or refused Ancel, only two other methods existed to obtain the necessary training. Both came with great risks. In one, the boy would need to find a way to breach the Kassite and cross realms into the Nether. All his research pointed to few outside the gods, the netherlings, and the primordial chaos of the beings inhabiting Mater itself, surviving such a trip. The task also involved shattering the weakened seals on the Nether. An option, but not a viable one, at least not one in which he was willing to participate. Precious little survived the last time the world faced the war such an act unleashed. He wanted no part in being a cause for such destruction as his ancestors had wrought. On his own, he’d sown enough chaos and suffering.

The second method might be even worse than the Nether. Ancel would need to pass between realms to Antonjur—the gods’ home of old. The mere thought of the place made him cringe.

Trying to clear his head, he took in the town of Eldanhill as the people went about their business oblivious to the impending changes in the world. Students as well as retired Ashishin strode down one side of Learner’s Row on their way to classes. Those aspiring to become Dagodin practiced under the watchful eyes of Weaponmasters. Novices and others further along in Materforging drilled in open practice areas. The rhythmic ring of steel on steel and the clack of wooden practice swords mingled with the boom and rumble of Forges and the synchronized shouts of unarmed combat. Multiple halls that contained one class or another, teaching everything from alchemy, apothecary, language arts, to mathematics, were filled to bursting.

The Mystera reminded him of the Iluminus but on a smaller scale. How many such schools existed? His chest swelled with the advancement his people had made. At the same time, his heart hurt over the misery he’d inflicted on them. He inhaled deeply.
What’s done is done. Not even the gods can turn back time.
A spicy aroma wafted to him, and his stomach growled.

“I just realized,” he said, glancing down to Ancel, “it’s been a long time since I ate.”

Ancel beamed, the expression making the stubble on his chin appear out of place. “Follow me.”

They continued down Learner’s Row before turning off onto one of the smaller streets and into a crowded open market. Criers and people haggling prices with vendors filled the plaza with the song of life. Sweaty bodies, perfumes, cooked foods, raw meats, and fruits created a mélange of odors. After his lonely months’ long trek from southern Granadia to this far north, Ryne reveled in the sweet music of the populace. Even the stench from nearby drains was almost enjoyable. Most townsfolk cleared a way for his giant form, some gracing him with everything from curious glances to open-mouthed stares. He smiled.

“Ryne,” Ancel said, “how did you find me?”

“Through the link. When a person receives their first Etching, every Eztezian senses his pull. Some more than others. Whether we choose to answer is another story. For some of us, there’s no choice.”

“Why?”

“The bond is that strong. In the Chronicle of Time, one of the others wrote that denying the call is like resisting the water in the ocean. You can only hold out for so long before the current sweeps you under. The power you used when you summoned the netherling saved me.” Ryne shuddered as he thought about his encounter with Voliny. “Even if I didn’t want to come, the power drove me. I chased where it led, through snows and storms, letting nothing stand in my way, killing if I had to. I went weeks on end without eating. When I reached you in the woods, the call ceased.”

“I understand feeling the link, but Da said you already knew my name. How?”

“Let’s just say a voice told me.”

“The essences?” Ancel asked.

“Maybe.” Ryne shrugged. He still wasn’t certain about the voice, or rather, the sense deep inside his mind that pointed to Ancel and revealed his name. When the connection to the swath of Mater occurred in Castere, he immediately understood it originated from the young man. The urgency driving him afterwards may have been his own consciousness or it may have been Mater.

From the market, Ancel led them onto an even wider road lined with brick and sandstone buildings, their tiled roofs either peaking up or sloping down. The avenue lacked the crush of shoppers and traders, but travelers still crowded the thoroughfare, huddled in everything from thick furs, leathers, layered swaths of cloth, and cloaks. Those who didn’t walk rode horses. Covered wagons and animal-drawn coaches trundled along, wheels kicking up muddy water along a street too busy for the snow to accumulate. A few men kept a ten-mule team on course as they hauled a cart carrying large blocks of quarried stone. Among the crowds marched a few Dagodin, often on the heels of big-boned, bushy-faced men in lighter leathers or furs with daggerpaws or wolves at their sides. The pets eyed the people as an eagle might a rabbit.

While the majority of people were paler complexioned Granadians, Ryne noted what he’d picked up on in the market. Many here were of Ostanian descent. Thick-shoulders and sandy-hair were Harnan traits. Add a tad more color, square jaws, and blue eyes, and several of the taller folk would fit right in among the Felani. Sprinklings of red, flame, or jet-black hair marked those with Setian heritage. Bald heads with bushy beards and moustaches belonged to the Banai. None of them dressed like their distant relatives, but the resemblances existed nonetheless.

The wild men and soldiers in blue and gold held his attention. They bore subtle or sometimes stark differences in size, but the auras about them told him they were of the same lineage. A race he thought he’d all but eliminated as Nerian the Shadowbearer during the war that sealed Stefan Dorn’s rebellion against him. These men were all Erastonians, among some of the deadliest warriors next to the Setian Alzari.

The memory of Stefan made him feel at odds with himself again. Here he was, now the mentor of a young man whose father hated him above no other. A secret he needed to maintain if he hoped to complete his task. When Irmina arrived as she promised, he planned to plead with her not to reveal his identity.

“The voice that came to you,” Ancel said, breaking their silence, “could it be the gods themselves touching the world?” He nodded toward the Streamean temple and its soaring clock tower dominating the town’s center.

“Who knows?” Ryne stared off into the distance. “Personally, I’ve seen too much not to believe in divine interference.”

“Do you think they hear our prayers?”

Ryne shrugged. “I have my suspicions, but that’s all they are.”

“I think they do,” Ancel said.

“Why?” Ryne asked, genuinely interested. He wondered if this young man had arrived at the same conclusions in his short time of ascension as he had over years mired by the fog of lost memories.

Ancel glanced around furtively. “I get dizzy sometimes when I pray.” His is voice lowered. “Ever since this power began to manifest. I experimented, but I can’t pin down the reason. I’m convinced it isn’t random. I think somehow my prayers are … answered.”

Surprised, Ryne arched his eyebrow. He suspected the same, but more than that, Ancel’s inquisitiveness and hunger for learning reminded him of Kahkon. A brief pang of regret for his inability to save Kahkon swept through him. It had been much the same with his own children. Unlike with Kahkon though, he’d put his own to the sword. Some in their youth and others when they’d lived a full life. Each one had been driven mad by the power they inherited. No matter how hard he beeged the gods, it made no difference. He often felt being an Eztezian was more a curse than a gift. Stripping themselves of the ability to bring children into the world had been the best choice they’d made.

“I’m uncertain what to think,” Ancel said, “but the people who I prayed for the hardest always seem to find a way to safety.”

“Coincidence?”

“I-I don’t know. Is it still coincidence if it happens several times?”

“Well, it’s possible,” Ryne said, “but concrete proof is like chasing the wind. We know it’s there but we can’t capture it.”

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Ryne chuckled. He hadn’t realized he was smiling. “You remind me of a boy I knew, that’s all. He was younger than you but always full of questions.” Memories of Kahkon flooded him. He held on to the good ones and pushed the painful ones away.

“You miss him?”

“More so now than I ever realized,” Ryne admitted. Stomach grumbling in earnest, he added. “How much farther is this place? I could eat a horse.” He glanced longingly at one of the beasts.

When he noticed Ancel had stopped, he turned back. The boy’s wide-eyed expression changed to a grimace.

“What?”

Ancel shook his head. “I always thought Ostanians eating horsemeat was a rumor.”

“You don’t?”

“No. It’s … it’s …”

“It tastes like deer,” Ryne insisted. He couldn’t help his smile when Ancel’s face paled. “Some things taste disgusting. Horseflesh isn’t one them, but I’ll remember to keep those thoughts to myself when I’m here.”

“You should be glad my friend Danvir isn’t around,” Ancel said. “He would’ve tried to gut you.”

Ryne chuckled.

“We’re here.” Ancel stopped at a five-storied building with a sign displaying a gigantic waterfall. The Whitewater Inn, the sign declared.

Six stern-faced Dagodin stood outside. Gazes locked on the greatsword at his hip, their hands drifted to their weapons. Ryne ignored them but kept his hand away from his weapon.

“Master Dorn, the Council is still meeting inside.” This from a Dagodin bearing the signet of a double set of crossed swords over a shield on the upper arm of his uniform. “We can’t allow anyone in.”

“Already I’m at a disadvantage,” Ancel said. “You know my name, and I don’t have a clue who you are. I make it my business to know every soldier’s name from officer on down.”

“I’m Knight Captain Steyn.” The man stood more erect, chest puffed out in an upper body hewn from stone.

“Hmm.” Ancel frowned then tapped a finger to his lips. He stopped as recognition crossed his face. “You lead the new Dagodin cohort from Calisto.”

The Knight Captain arched an eyebrow then nodded.

“Well, I understand your orders, Knight Captain Steyn, but the fact that the dining room is empty is exactly why I’m here. Not only am I starving, but could you picture me taking him,” Ancel gestured to Ryne with a smile, “into one of the more crowded establishments?”

“I see your point,” The Knight Captain looked Ryne up and down, “but orders are orders. You’re going to have to eat elsewhere.”

“Knight Captain,” the smile disappeared from Ancel’s face, “this was my mother’s favorite place. I always eat here in her memory.”

“Sorry to hear that, son.” The Knight Captain’s eyes appeared sympathetic for a moment before they hardened. “But people die all the time. If I listened to every sap who came to me with a sob story, no disrespect intended to my commander’s son or his wife, I’d be stripped of my position and drawn and quartered.”

Ancel’s face became blank. Darkness flashed across his aura for a moment. His Etchings gave a telltale shift.

Ryne reached a hand out to restrain him. Too late.

Time slowed. Everything happened at once.

A door to the side opened. Several people streamed out. Hand stretching to Ancel, Ryne picked out Irmina among them. Openmouthed, she stared from him to Ancel and then to something behind them.

Ancel’s right hand shot up in a blur, striking the Knight Commander in the chest. The blow’s force flung Steyn from his feet. He crashed into the inn’s wide oak door and fell in a heap of armor.

A snarl twisting her features, Irmina reached for her sword, eyes focused on whatever was beyond Ryne.

Ryne whirled.

A few dozen feet away stood a slim, golden-haired woman. Her aura bloomed with a peculiar mix of light, shade, and earth essences. An aura he knew well. She’d been present when he found Kahkon, broken, bloody, and barely alive.