Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood (5 page)

C
hapter 6

I
rmina waited patiently as she’d been doing for several hours now, inspecting the foyer and marveling at its cleanliness. Anything to keep her attention off the angry voice emanating from the inner room where the Exalted resided. Paintings decorated the closest wall. On the other side were bookshelves lined with glass-encased tomes, the vellum within as fragile as a mummified carcass. The dead-eyed expression of the High Shin standing before the shelves dissuaded her urge to approach the cases.

Back the way she came, silver-armored Dagodin stood guard at evenly spaced intervals on a bridge that spanned the library below. Small lightstones hanging from chains around their neck, several dozen High Shin drifted among neat piles of aged books, stopping to jot down notes. Irmina yearned to go down into the Iluminus’ renowned Great Library and question its Custodians. The annals beckoned to her with promises of unraveling the truth of her family’s demise. Surprisingly, the entire area lacked the mustiness of old paper. It was devoid of odor. The missing scent evoked a sense of emptiness.

High Shin Jerem’s voice rose behind the lone door in the foyer. Irmina fidgeted as she turned to face the entrance once more. She could count on one hand the number of times Jerem ever became that angry. Even muffled to the point where she could not make out the words, the vehemence attached to his tone was plain.

She winced at another shout from her mentor. If someone else spoke to the man, they were indiscernible. The large oak doors swung open as if blown by a powerful gust.

Face livid, High Shin Jerem stormed from the room. “May Ilumni have mercy on you all,” he yelled, and stalked away. He winked as he drew abreast of her before he strode toward the bridge, muttering to himself.

“Irmina?”

“Yes,” she managed, still gaping at Jerem. She turned to face a dark-haired High Shin with tight, disapproving eyes. A lump formed in her throat. The High Shin hadn’t addressed her by any form of title.

“The Exalted will see you now.”

Legs wooden, the stone floor seemingly miles beneath her feet, Irmina bowed and approached the door. A near blinding luminescence filled the room beyond. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the opening and into the light. The door swung shut behind her with a soft click.

“Irmina Nagel,” a disembodied voice said from all around her.

Irmina paused. Compared to outside, which was practically devoid of scent, the Exalted’s room reeked. The pungent odor reminded her of decomposition, festering wounds, of something dying. Her pulse quickened as she remembered the stink from the Wraithwoods and from the shadelings in Castere Keep. If she was anywhere but the Iluminus, she would have sworn the shade inhabited the room. Involuntarily, her hand slid down to her empty scabbard.

“You were brought here today to show you are worthy of the calling you seek.” This second voice was different, almost as if water dripped while the person spoke. It chased the thoughts from her mind. “There will be but one chance for you to turn back and resume your duties as an Ashishin. Now is your chance. Decide.”

Irmina licked her lips and then cleared her throat. “What happens if I don’t want to decide?”

“Then we may decide to strip you of your current status. Uncertainty is unbecoming for an Ashishin.” This voice hissed like water poured over hot coals.

“And if I fail?”

“You will be nothing.” Another new voice, this time with a musical tinkle.

A Raijin, an Ashishin, or nothing. Why can’t these things ever be simple?

“Choose.” The command was like a rumble of thunder. For some reason it irritated her.

“Suppose I turned back now, what then?”

“You will remain an Ashishin until the end of your days,” the disembodied voice announced.

Well, that didn’t sound so bad. There are worse ways to die.

“Many have failed before you. Many have decided not to proceed,” said the hiss.

“There is no shame if you lack the ability.” The person with the musical tone was almost mocking.

The speeches continued in a susurrus, goading her, giving her doubts, some encouraging, some belittling. They spilled forth so fast, her head spun. It was as if a crowd surrounded her, taunting. She always hated being bullied. Temper flaring, she opened her mouth to answer then abruptly stopped. Now she understood why Jerem shouted earlier, why he was so out of character, why he winked. A reminder.

Irmina sought the control of the Eye. She floated within its center while her anger, fear, confusion, and a dozen other emotions skittered on the outside. She said nothing.

Moments passed with the voices’ taunts. Abruptly, they stopped.

Silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.

“Good,” disembodied said. “A Raijin must know when not to speak.”

“However, there is still a choice to be made. Do you wish to take the test?” asked the voice that dripped.

She offered no answer.

“Good. A Raijin must never be forced into any decision but their own.” The response came in a hiss.

“Why did you allow he who was responsible for your family’s demise to go free?” The musical voice continued in rhythmic tones, “Why did you spare the life of one of the greatest threats to our rule? A threat to peace?”

Irmina gritted her teeth, almost losing her hold on the Eye with the mention of her family. “Everything is not always what it seems.”

“Good,” disembodied said. “A Raijin must see what others cannot.”

“Do you understand why we do what we do? Why the values of Streamean worship is so important?” All the voices rang out in a chorus.

Irmina almost smiled. “Unity.”

“Why?”

“It’s the basis of the greatest strength. The togetherness of the gods, the religions, and man are the way for survival and prosperity, so is the unity of mind, body, and Mater.”

The room became quiet. Slowly, the silence grew to something palpable in Irmina’s chest. Then the voices began to whisper. Unrecognizable, the conversation flitted back and forth.

“There’s another issue before us,” the Exalted said in concert.

Irmina waited patiently.

“High Ashishin are taught to plot against each other. This is one of the ways to see who is worthy of becoming Exalted. But none has been so bold as your High Shin Jerem.”

“What do you mean?”

“He plots against the Exalted themselves.”

“I know nothing of his plans.”

“What would you do if you were in our position?”

“Dispose of the threat.” She pictured eyebrows rising at her suggestion.

“What of the belief we teach in avoiding violence? The harmonies between man and his world?”

“Such a balance will take care of itself.”

“Good. A Raijin must know when to look past any supposed rules to strive for the greater good.” Again this came from all the Exalted.

Another lull followed in the questioning as they resumed the quiet conversation between themselves. Strain as she might, Irmina failed to make out any words or individuals. The whispers reminded her of those at the edge of her mind when her emotions rose to a boil and she attempted to touch her Matersense. But those voices goaded, begged for her to kill in order kill to appease them. The Exalted’s whispers lacked a comparable malevolence.

“Irmina Nagel, your people in Eldanhill joined in the recent uprisings against the Tribunal. They have not gone as far as some of the others in Granadia, rebuking Streamean worship altogether, but their rebellion must be dealt with. An example must be made of their leaders.”

Irmina’s lips quirked, but she held in her smile. “As you wish. I am but the bladed extension of your will.”

“Good. A Raijin’s loyalty is to Ilumni and the Exalted first, the Tribunal second. All else is of no consequence.”

Profane, placing yourselves on the same level as a god.
She almost asked where the people themselves fit in. Instead, she bowed in acquiescence.

“Raijin Nagel, what did you discover of Ryne Waldron … or Nerian, if you prefer.”

Irmina held in a gasp at their mention of her title. Not throwing back her head and laughing in exultation was only made possible by the Eye. “Beyond that he may be descended from the Eztezians, and he wields a power unknown to all, not much. He now has some strange link between himself and someone I once knew in Eldanhill. When it happened, I felt it. It was as if the entire world and all its Mater were interconnected through them. When I left him, he was headed to Eldanhill. His bodyguard turned out to be a netherling. He—” She cut off as the voices rose so loud she could barely think. They rasped, tinkled, thundered, dripped and everything else in between.

“Raijin Irmina. You have your first task. Kill Ryne Thanairen Waldron, whoever he has linked with, and the Eldanhill Council.”

C
hapter 7

B
y the time they reached Eldanhill’s walls, several guards had already come to escort them. The soldiers cupped their hands over their mouths and noses and glanced back at the giant who now lay on a two-wheeled dray drawn by two horses. The flatbed cart trundled through the ankle high slush covering the Eldan Road’s cobbles. Boots squishing in the muddy snow, Ancel strode next to the stranger, pointedly ignoring the curious looks from townsfolk. Several dogs chased the dray for a moment, barking at the unconscious man before Ancel shooed them away. The absence of nosy children running by to point or stare in awe was as out of place as the signs and results of the Sendethi attack on Eldanhill.

Forty-foot wooden walls and the towers along its length were the first of those. Inside Eldanhill, they’d rebuilt much of the buildings destroyed during the siege. Stone and woodwork of new construction stood in stark contrast to the charred, skeletal remains of some homes. From the top of the Streamean temple’s clock tower flew two banners: the Setian Quaking Forest and the Dosteri Guardian Wall with its shield emblazoned against a background of battlements. Soldiers in beige Dosteri uniforms or Setian green marched down the road. Some dotted the towers along the ramparts.

A few of the big, rawboned Seifer and Nema mountain men still sauntered along the streets, quick to show their teeth, imitating their pet wolves and daggerpaws. Several gathered around a clear area near the stables, cheering or pumping their fists at a group of six clansmen. Some leveled taunts in their guttural language or attempted to curse in Granadian, their accents slurred, making Ancel smile with the way they mispronounced many words.

In the open space, the six mountain men played a game of senjin. They tossed the leather ball between them while tackling each other with a myriad of moves in an attempt to score in a small marked off area divided into six even parts. On each team, one of them stayed back to protect his goal, by rule not allowed to cross zones to join the melee. At present, those on offense appeared to have the upper hand as they stepped out of the other defender’s designated area to gang up on one opponent. A few swift kicks and punches later, the contest became two versus two in the final area. From the bloody faces and reddish snow churned under by their boots, they took their sport seriously.

Life had changed in Eldanhill. The smithies worked around the clock now, creating weapons and armor, the clang of their hammers near incessant. The attack and construction of the new wall gave more work to the stonemasons than they could handle, and they often brought apprentices in from Harval, deep within the Red Ridge Mountains. Mining and quarrying had become a required profession. Any able-bodied men, when not on soldiering duty, took up the task.

Several retired Ashishin helped to imbue some of the weapons being crafted into
divya
. The process was not only tiring but also a great risk of their control. Only the strongest attempted it. Townsfolk who remained, and lacked the ability at least to become Dagodin, still learned the sword and went through the rigors of soldier training. The classes at the Mystera had almost tripled with refugees pouring in from a few of the other small villages, farms, and towns in the Whitewater Falls region.

Once the shadelings lost their leader, they resorted to raiding whatever they could manage. The outlying villages and farms suffered the brunt of these attacks from the remnants of the wraithwolves and darkwraiths. At least until Eldanhill’s Dagodin cohorts set to work in cleaning up the menace. Eldanhill expected no help from the Tribunal. Supposedly, they considered all of Sendeth as part of the same uprising to overthrow their rule. Their first task appeared to be to cut off the infection at the head.

The allied army of Sendeth and Barson had practically disappeared overnight, amid reports the Tribunal had struck Randane itself, sending Pathfinders into King Emory’s Palace. War raged daily around Randane’s walls. A Tribunal army several hundred thousand strong also marched for Barson.

The other territories had stayed out of the conflict, not wanting to incur the Tribunal’s wrath. There still had been no retaliation to Eldanhill raising the Setian banner, but Stefan insisted a response was inevitable.

So, Eldanhill prepared, and in the meantime, they sent those too young or old to fight to the Red Ridge Mountains. Dosteri forces guided them from there in a long trek across eastern Granadia and to the Dosteri capital city of Torandil. There, they were to wait within the safety of the city’s walls.

Ancel wondered when and if Eldanhill’s own Mystera would close like all the others. Although he had no confirmation, he guessed they would make a mass exodus from Torandil, head to Ostania, and reclaim Seti. His true heritage. The thought seemed unreal. Dreaming of doing a thing, in this case going off to war beyond the Vallum of Light in Ostania, was vastly different from the reality. Even if it was not on the side he’d imagined.

“Any idea where he came from? Or why he stinks like that?” Mirza’s reedy voice interrupted his thoughts. His friend scrunched up his nose.

“None.”

“But you have an inkling who he is.” Mirza cocked his head to one side, the bush under his chin reminding Ancel of red sand.

“I suppose.”

“Suppose my ass,” his friend said, some of his old playfulness coming through. Hair reaching to his shoulder, Mirza had filled out in the past months, spending most of his time practicing with the Dagodin after receiving an early promotion by Shin Galiana. He’d also become versed in the
Disciplines of Soldiering
. His Setian uniform appeared as natural on him as the clouds were to the sky.

“Fine.” Ancel gave him a bemused smile. He leaned forward so his father couldn’t hear. “He’s the one that’s supposed to teach me.”

“I figured as much once I saw Mr. Tapestry Man here.”

“It’s been him all along.”

“Huh?”

Ancel rolled his eyes at Mirza’s confused frown. “The link,” he whispered.

Mirza’s lips formed an O.

“Right now it’s the size of a senjin ball with him this close to me.”

Mirza groaned. “Don’t remind me of that damn game. I bet one of the Seifer I could make it to the end of the field untouched.” He turned the side of his face to reveal a mottled bruise. “I was on my ass before I made it halfway across, and he’d taken the ball, scored, and had the nerve to dance. Never saw the big brute coming.” He shook his head. “I need to find out how they move so damn fast.”

Ancel covered his mouth to suppress his grin. “Next time, leave senjin to me. I keep telling you speed isn’t all that matters.”

“Whatever. So who shot him?” Mirza glanced at the giant.

“Da did.”

“And he lived?” Mirza whistled. “Why? Didn’t you tell your father?”

“We were fighting off some wolves and the man showed up. Stepped out of the woods with that monster sword in his hand.”

Mirza glanced over at the weapon the giant still clutched. “I’d have shot him too.” He snorted. “How’d wolves manage to hurt Kach?”

“I don’t know, but they’ve grown smarter.” He replayed the images of them feinting before they attacked, how they’d tried to hide that he’d wounded one of them, and shook his head in disbelief. “They set a trap for me.”

Mirza chuckled.

“What?” Ancel said, glowering at him.

“The wolves set a trap for the trapper. If you don’t see the irony …” Mirza’s voice trailed off.

“Anyway,” Ancel said, “Kach and Da held them off while I escaped with him.” He nodded to the dray. “By the time they caught up, she had that bite on her leg.”

“Well,” Mirza said, “I’ll get some of the men in my cohort together and go take a look for these wolves of yours.” He leaned closer to inspect the giant. “Why’s he so blue and black in the face and hands? You would think he’d been standing outside for an entire winter. I mean, that can’t be good. He’ll probably lose a finger or two or worse. Some of the dead tissue is gone past anything mending can do.”

“I don’t know, but he was moving fine enough until Da shot him.”

“Wait,” Mirza’s brow bunched, “Ancel,” his voice lowered almost to a whisper, “we tried to damage that arm of yours since you got those … Etchings.” He glanced around after saying the word before continuing, “But nothing affects it. How could your Da’s arrows …”

“
Divya,
” Ancel whispered. “That’s what Da used. I’m sure of it. He also sounded like he knew the man or rather the Etchings, but then he stopped talking about them.”

“Did you ask him—?”

Ancel cut him off with a flat-eyed expression.

“Right,” Mirza said, “I forgot your Da is as stubborn as you are when you want to keep a secret. Anyway, you think he’s near invincible to normal weapons like you?” Mirza’s gaze drifted to the giant.

“Maybe, but remember it still hurts when I get hit on mine.” Ancel paused. “There’s something else …”

“What?”

“I think he might have recognized my Da. He knew Kachien for sure.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Remember when she told us about her orders in Ostania?”

Mirza frowned.

“About the man and the boy?”

Mirza stroked his red beard for a moment then nodded.

“Supposedly, he’s that man.”

“Didn’t she say they died?”

Ancel shook his head. “No. She said she failed.”

Silence ensued as they continued their trek through Eldanhill. One of the soldiers in front yelled to keep the way clear as they reached the more crowded parts of town, passing along the tight stalls and shops of Market Row and into Thanairen Square. The noise of criers and others shouting their wares drowned out the rumble of the dray’s wheels. Stalls occupied almost every space within the market. Peddlers rubbed or blew in their hands or simply stomped to drum up some warmth. Some stayed close to fires. A few shoppers congregated near where peddlers sold soup or hot broth. The aroma of food and the press of unwashed bodies mingled for an unpleasant odor. A fur seller in one corner was doing brisk business. He nodded in Ancel’s direction. Ancel shook his head. He had no pelts or furs to provide the trader this day.

“Any word yet about when or if they’ll close the Mystera?” Ancel asked as they turned east down Henden Lane. Off to their left began Learners Row and the line of large, three and four storied buildings, halls, and open spaces where the Teachers, all retired Ashishin, held their classes.

“None yet, but Jillian left earlier to escort what’s to be the last convoy to Torandil.”

Ancel breathed a sigh of relief. The animosity between Jillian and his father had grown since the man took Mother. He often felt it was only a matter of time before they fought openly. This must have been Galiana’s way to dissolve the problem. Always plotting, that woman. He shook his head.

Chests puffed out, several cadets garbed in blue and sporting the gold shield and sword of Dagodin in training stepped out from the Row. When the cadets looked toward the guard and saw Mirza’s green uniform, they ducked their heads quickly and hurried toward the market. Ancel smiled. They hadn’t even acknowledged his father where he strode with the horse’s reins in his hands. Stefan was the commander of all the military in Eldanhill, but his furs and leathers often made him appear as unassuming as the next man.

“Remember when we were just like them?” Mirza gestured with his head toward the young soldiers.

“Yes, less than a year ago.”

“Look at us now.” Mirza spread his hands to show off his uniform and matching jacket. The crossed swords of a Dagodin Knight glinted on his lapel.

“You mean look at you now,” Ancel said.

“Bah. Why do you do that?” Mirza flicked at his hair in irritation. “You’re more than any of us.”

“And yet still I’m not. If someone asked after my title, what would you say?”

Mirza tilted his head to one side, stroking his beard again. Eyes narrowing, he contemplated for a bit more before he shrugged.

“Exactly. For all my talent and this so called Gift, whatever it is, I’m nothing,” Ancel said bitterly.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I understand.” Mirza took a deep breath. “Listen. Whatever you’re meant to do, you’ll find a way just like you found one past your issues with Irmina. Right there,” his gaze roved over the giant, “is your start.”

“Start to what though?”

“That, my friend, is a good question.”

Ancel gazed out toward the Kelvore River as they made the sharp turn off Henden Lane onto one the many small alleys crisscrossing this part of town. Swollen by precipitation from the northern ranges, the river’s deep swirling waters rushed by. A gray mass of clouds hung over the mountains. Set next to the Kelvore, this was the one part of town without walls. “You ever wonder where we would be if things didn’t happen like they did?”

“I don’t wonder. I know. We’d be dead,” Mirza replied.

Ancel contemplated his words for a moment. “If you let Dan tell it, we may as well be dead by staying here.”

Danvir had decided to leave with the old, the children, and the others who didn’t wish to be a part of the fighting to come. Ancel recalled hugging his broad-shouldered friend before Danvir set off as part as the escort to Torandil.

“Dan turned into a coward.” Mirza hawked and spat. “I never expected that from him.” Mouth twisting in contempt, he continued, “We were supposed to be in this together, going off to be knights, fighting to keep Granadia safe. Now the world’s at stake, what does he do? He flees at the first sign of killing like some green-eyed girl.”

“Not everyone is made from the same mold, Mirz,” Ancel said. Sometimes, he did miss their big friend. He could picture Danvir’s oversized nose and ears and his eyes bulging at the sight of the giant. “Not everyone can be as cold as you when it comes to taking a life either, not even me.”

“We do what we must.”

“Indeed.”

“Speaking of old friends, you heard anything from Alys?” Mirza broke into a wry smile.

Ancel’s lips gave an involuntary twitch. He missed her. “The last eagles to arrive said they’d reached Torandil safely. Good thing too. Just in time before the hardest bit of winter hits. For a while there I was worried. Waiting for that eagle made me wish there was a faster way to travel between cities, you know, like the ancient Travelshafts or something.” Ancel pictured himself riding through the tunnels that stories said existed between the major cities, arriving in a third of the time it would take to make such a journey by horseback.