The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (369 page)

‘There is a war to win, your Majesty. You cannot distract yourself with feelings of guilt.’

‘And yet I do,’ Emin said sadly. ‘I have lost many friends, and I will lose many more in the weeks to come. I know I must ask you to push yourself far beyond a sensible limit, that Ebarn and Wentersorn stand almost no chance of surviving what I must ask of them, and so I am reluctant to ask—’

‘Then don’t!’ Endine cried. ‘Make that one fewer burden to carry. We’re not the only ones who’ll go to our deaths when it comes to battle – far from it. Wentersorn’s a mercenary – you recruited him just for the attack on the Ruby Tower and he’s had plenty of opportunities to escape if he wanted.

‘These soldiers here – they’re the ones who must fear, they’re the ones in the jaws of uncertainty. We mages, we have a single, noble purpose that we embraced a long time ago.’

‘One fewer burden?’ Emin managed a smile. ‘The fate of the entire Land rests on our shoulders. The blood spilled in the Waste will be the ink used to write the future of all peoples.’

He broke off and watched the ordered lines of Legana’s Sisters as they followed close behind the mages. There were more than a hundred of them now, a dozen priestesses with at least a regiment of spear-wielding former acolytes. Legana had named them the Sisters of Dusk, though she declined to explain why, even to those few brave enough to ask Fate’s Mortal-Aspect directly.

The women wore leather armour reinforced with steel bands and, perhaps in echo of their leader, each carried a pair of long-knives on her belt. Legana was at the heart of them, a thin shawl hiding her face. Though she limped, as always, the pace of the group never faltered. As evening fell, she would walk through the camp, her face uncovered and her green eyes shining bright. She looked taller in the ghost-hour, edged in light as the shadows lengthened, while her bodyguards, blessed and augmented by the touch of the divine, faded into the background as they pulled off their boots to reveal Mihn’s owl tattoos.

Emin could feel her green eyes on him now, and thought he saw Legana’s head dip in greeting. Her knives were hidden by the folds of her cloak, but everyone in the army knew they would be there when she needed them. There were rumours in the camp that she could call them to her hand, the same way Isak could produce Termin Mystt in an instant, but Emin knew it was just the speed of a skilled woman enhanced by her divine blood.

‘There are too many I’ve failed to spend the time I should with, these past few weeks,’ he said at last. ‘Too many I may not see again.’

As one the Sisters turned to face them, a hundred faces looking their way, making Endine flinch. Emin smiled, knowing that was Legana, talking into the minds of her followers. The Mortal-Aspect had been Emin’s closest advisor leading up to the battle of Moorview, becoming friends as she’d helped him to plan a war that involved Gods, magic and belief. That disconcerting, otherworldly reaction had been a private joke between the two of them – a salute from a friend.

‘Legana? I think she’ll be the last of us to fall,’ Endine grum bled, ‘her and Daken, soaked in blood and standing back to back most likely.’

‘You may be right there.’ Emin squinted up at the angry grey sky, ignoring the rain falling onto his face. There were birds circling high above, despite the poor weather. ‘Let us hope they won’t be the only ones left.’

Light snow fell unnoticed as Morghien stood at the hill’s peak. His attention was focused solely on the plain, a featureless expanse scoured by centuries of storms. In the distance a fat column of soldiers advanced towards them, a creeping stain of shadow over the grey earth. They were miles off yet, their scouts not yet in threatening range, but fear still fluttered in Morghien’s stomach.

‘So many years ago,’ Morghien mused, breaking the tense hush, ‘all these years, and what have I learned?’

‘Learned?’ asked Shanas, the tattooed young woman at his side. ‘Old man, don’t start on that rubbish – you can go senile and catch up with your true age later. For the next few weeks I need you sharp.’

‘
Need
me?’ Morghien echoed. ‘I’m not sure what good I’ll be doing here. I’m not a soldier; I’m nothing to what’s coming.’

Shanas flashed a smile. ‘Maybe not, but until we meet up with the army your spirits and magic’ll keep us safe at night. I’m buggered if I’m witnessing all this only to get eaten by some bastard daemon in the night.’

Morghien turned to look at the attractive young woman. She had changed in the few months he’d known her, hardened from a meek, wary girl into a more elegant version of Ardela. He didn’t much approve of that, knowing Ardela’s dark history, but when he reflected on it, it was more sadness that he felt. She was better educated than either Legana or Ardela, and capable of far more gentleness. In another age, Morghien thought, she would have been a truly great Temple Mistress, tempering their youth and guiding her order wisely. Instead, she had developed hard edges and a brittle strength, and reminded Morghien more and more of Doranei, a good man damaged by brutal times.

‘As you wish,’ he said eventually. ‘Just promise me you’ll see the other side of it. Witnessing such things loses its shine, I find. Remember to enjoy the life that comes after it too.’

‘Aye, sure, whatever you say, old man.’ She frowned at him. ‘You realise you ask for a lot of promises when you’re maudlin?’

‘I do?’

‘You’ve twice asked me never to start drinking – what’s that all about?’

He lowered his eyes. ‘It’s the easiest way to ruin a fine future,’ he muttered, thinking again of Doranei.

‘Let’s make sure we have a future first, eh?’

Morghien returned his attention to the army in the distance. ‘I dreamed last night of just that.’

‘Our future? Settle down, grandfather!’

‘No,’ he said, ‘that we didn’t have a future.’

‘Sounds like you’re in need of a drink, then.’

‘Aye, mebbe I am. I found myself in Death’s throne room: I was dead and awaiting the Last Judgement.’

‘Old Bones was a bit annoyed with you then?’ Shanas laughed, elbowing him. ‘I could’ve told you threatening the Chief of the Gods was a bloody stupid thing to do.’

‘If only that was the problem,’ Morghien said, shivering slightly at the memory. ‘Problem was, it wasn’t Lord Death on the throne, it was a shadow – Azaer, wearing a crown of gold and carrying Death’s sceptre.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Shanas exclaimed, all trace of humour gone. ‘No wonder you’re looking like someone walked over your grave today. So what happened?’

‘I don’t really remember – we spoke, Azaer said something, then I was dragged away in chains towards a great fire. That’s when the morning sun woke me.’

‘Good thing too. That’s not a dream you want to finish.’

‘But ever since, I’ve not felt like I’m truly awake,’ Morghien said. ‘All this day, ever since we sighted Keriabral, it’s felt like I’m trapped in a dream of my past.’

Shanas turned to face east, away from the army. There in the distance, just a vague shape on the horizon, was Castle Keriabral, the ancient ruins of Aryn Bwr’s own fortress. The Last King had built the fortress within a huge crater several miles across, using the near-sheer outer slopes as part of the defences. The castle stood on the highest part of the plain, and the land around it was desolate, except for a shadowed area to the south, where there was an oasis.

‘And that’s where your bad dreams came from,’ Shanas breathed.

Morghien turned to look. ‘A hundred years on, near enough, and that’s where I find myself in my nightmares. We had a division of Knights of the Temples to escort us – more’n enough, given the locals are malnourished savages.’

‘We?’

‘Mages and historians for the main. I’d become an apprentice of sorts to a brilliant old man by the name of Cheliss Malich. His son, Cordein, wasn’t so impressed with my presence, but anyone who knows their Farlan history shouldn’t be so surprised by that.’

‘Cordein Malich, aye,’ Shanas said. ‘And three of you survived: you, Malich and the minstrel Rojak too—’

Morghien scowled. ‘Malich and I survived. Azaer brought madness down upon us, infecting one man as he was digging up artefacts on the inner slopes, then slowly moving through us all. The shadow was interested in Malich and me and it spared us because of his talent and my unusual nature. And merciful Gods, that boy was talented – arrogant and spiteful at times, at others brilliant and noble.

‘The crazed ones turned on me when I refused Azaer, trailed me for miles once I escaped that place. But Rojak? I’m not sure I’d say he survived it, it was just that his body kept on going. He’d been a sweet lad. He wrote some fine songs about the castle our first week there. I don’t honestly know what happened to him; I only remember him gorging on the wild peaches that grew in the oasis – fruit the locals wouldn’t touch.’

‘And now you’re back.’

Morghien nodded slowly. ‘I’m the only one left from that folly,’ he drawled, ‘but I can’t say I’m much interested in returning.’

‘You expect me to come all this way and not see bloody Castle Keriabral?’ Shanas demanded.

‘Save it for later,’ Morghien said soberly. ‘The damn thing’s been there for seven thousand years. What’s left is impressive, but it ain’t likely to change. The remaining towers are a sight, that’s for sure, and so’s the Glass Bridge and the tiered gardens, even run wild. Ever heard of a water-falcon?’

Shanas shook her head, pushing back an errant trail of copper hair.

‘Most people think it’s a myth, as rare as a phoenix and harder to spot. That’s worth seeking out; you won’t find many more beautiful sights than that. But after last time I ain’t going without a high mage in tow, not until the shadow’s dead. Don’t reckon you should either, fancy tattoos or no.’

The wind suddenly raced down over them, howling mournfully as it swept icy fingers across their faces. Tiny snowflakes danced before Morghien’s eyes as his fur-lined hood whipped forward and long straggly hair fell across his eyes. The wanderer cursed and pushed the hood back again, though he didn’t mind the cold, instead recalling the searing sun of high summer.

‘We’re not going to Keriabral?’ Shanas asked, shivering slightly. ‘You said that was where we were headed.’

‘The vicinity,’ Morghien clarified. ‘I don’t think Ruhen’s heading there either. Some stories say Aryn Bwr forged the Crystal Skulls in his great forge at Keriabral, where its fires were fed by the River Maram itself, but I reckon that’s so much horseshit. Who’d live in a castle where a Devil’s Stair was open – whether or not daemons could get through, it wouldn’t be much fun to live anywhere near that. No, there’s nothing in Keriabral or even the crater that Ruhen wants. He’s got somewhere else in mind.’

‘Planning on playing the mysterious old bastard any longer?’ Shanas asked impatiently.

At last a small smile crept onto Morghien’s face. ‘All the days I got left. There’s only one other thing around here, and it’s the reason Aryn Bwr built his fortress here, in a place that was never populous, nor of any strategic value during the Wars of the Houses.’

‘Well, what is it – where do we find it?’

Morghien scratched his cheek, found a louse in his lengthening beard and crushed it between his fingers. ‘What is it?’ he echoed, ‘I don’t rightly know. Best you ask Legana about that. As for how we find it? We don’t, not us feeble mortals, anyway. It’s the heart of the Land, so Mage Verliq wrote, but it ain’t for the likes of us. Azaer knows it though; the shadow led Aryn Bwr there in the first place, and where an army of seventy-odd thousand men, women and children marches, I reckon we’ll be able to follow.’

He kicked at a rock and headed back down the slope to where their small troupe was waiting. Their numbers were much reduced after travelling through this unknown, dangerous wilderness. Just before he reached his horse, Morghien looked up again at the faint lump of Keriabral’s crater walls and the blur that would resolve into three enormous towers as they neared. Closer still, and the two fallen towers would be visible, the rubble crushing the small city that had comprised Keriabral’s lower reaches.

It was all a ruin now, though tribespeople from the Waste had colonised parts, but the crown of towers had been intended to be the Last King’s enduring monument and the magic was still strong, even millennia later. From those towers you could see the shattered remains of Aryn Bwr’s impregnable dream. Isak himself had seen it, in his own dreams, for the bitter memory had lingered long in Aryn Bwr’s mind.

‘You know, the bastard even bragged about it in Scree, so Emin told me,’ he said, rounding on Shanas, who stopped dead.

‘Who, Azaer?’

‘And Rojak,’ Morghien said. ‘A scene of slaughter painted on the theatre door – Emin recognised it from what I’d told him: four towers standing, one fallen, and flames getting ready to take another, the towers so tall even Tirah Palace looks like a child’s toy in comparison. Those towers burned the day Keriabral was taken, the day the Gods threw their armies at its walls and didn’t care that in the process they extinguished entire races they’d created for the war. That’s pretty much when Aryn Bwr became the shadow’s pawn. The more I think about it, the more I reckon that painting was Azaer announcing the slaughter to come, the destruction he’d profit from once again.’

Shanas looked at him a long while then said, ‘So it’s agreed, then. We don’t want him sitting on Death’s throne when our times come?’

‘No.’

‘Then get on your bloody horse, old man, there’s still work to be done.’

Ruhen walked ahead of his disciples, his remaining eye fixed on nothing that Ilumene could discern. The white cloaked-soldier followed at a distance, behind him trailing Larim, the Menin mage, Koteer of the Jesters and the black Harlequin, Venn. They watched Ruhen in silence, waiting for a sign from the child that they were finally at their destination.

Ilumene knew they were being watched; though he’d yet to find the observers, his senses prickled. The army had settled at the base of a long rise, while their small party continued on another mile to this hill. The ground was mostly rock and dust; stunted bushes and creeping roses were the only growing plants. The hill itself was as high as anything within sight, studded with enormous boulders and surrounded by more. It reminded him of a childhood story he’d once heard, of two giants arguing and hurling rocks the size of houses at each other.