Destiny's Rift (Broken Well Trilogy) (21 page)

Bel stared hard at Fazel but, as usual, the blackened skull gave little away. He knew the mage could not lie to him, so he nodded curtly. ‘I see. However, the next time we are presented with a choice like that, I invite you to be more open about it.’

‘As you wish,’ said Fazel.

•

Away in the night, the lights of Valdurn twinkled. It looked a prosperous little village, simple and neatly constructed. It lay nestled against a great wood, which expanded behind it in all directions, and somewhere through that lay the dragon’s lair.

‘We go in?’ gurgled Thrasker, his beady pearl eyes fixed on the village.

Ectid clinked her claws together. ‘Yes, yes,’ she whispered eagerly. Tarka and Eddow also took up the clinking, filling the air with a deadly staccato.

‘Silence,’ said Eldew, and they froze. ‘Have you forgotten that I am the biggest? I shall decide the way.’

The Mireforms gurgled and lowered their claws.

‘The village is easily avoided,’ put in Gremin, the most level-headed of the group.

‘But it would not delay us long,’ said Ectid immediately.

‘Eldew,’ said Tarka. ‘I have rested so long in the swamp, half-asleep in the mud . . . but now I am out in the world, awake! Are you not awake also?’

Eldew considered Tarka’s words. He supposed there was no harm in allowing a brief stop. And, in truth, a part of him wanted what the others wanted. It was base perhaps, but there was no denying one’s own nature. Enemies were enemies.

‘To Valdurn,’ he said.

•

Losara lay on his bedroll, gazing up at the stars. The difficulty with which he found sleep away from the castle was made no easier by thinking constantly, thinking in circles, about his choices.

Was there any point to him possessing the Stone? Maybe it could reunite him with Bel, but it was also capable of much, much more. Being able to combine light and shadow to a single purpose . . . that was the kind of power that could win wars. Paradoxical perhaps, to wish for a way to unite such powers as a means to snuff out one of them forever. And how could he use it? He had no mage of the light loyal to his cause, nor the remotest prospect of finding one.

On the other hand, how did Bel hope to use it? His
other
seemed to realise that Fazel could not be directed against him, unless Losara allowed it – and why would Bel ever think that Losara would allow it?

Who, then? How did the light hope to find a shadow mage willing to turn against his own people?

Fields of Grass

Fields of Grass

Fields of Grass

Battu almost reeled from the onslaught of déjà vu. He’d thought maybe he could avoid this moment, yet here it was, smiling at him and saying hello. Here, in the final steps.

In the weeks he’d spent travelling through Kainordas, he’d had similar moments, but never as exact. He had moved mostly at night, when the power he burned speeding his steps was more easily replenished. It had been difficult to avoid settlements entirely, and more than once he’d been detected by mages of light. They had hunted him, as they would hunt any shadow presence in their land, but they’d had no idea of precisely who they faced. Luckily for them, Battu had sought to dodge rather than fight, and none had come close to him.

Occasionally, when he had sensed no mages present, he had hidden under illusions and dared to enter villages, to fill his belly with proper food and sleep in a proper bed once more. The gold with which he paid for such pleasures had not been hard to come by, and there was a farmhouse or two worse off in his wake. Most of the time, however, he had slipped through the night then slept the day away, hidden amongst trees or under rocks, anywhere that protected him from the scorching sun. When he’d had to travel by day, sweat came heavily, moistening his robe and making it chafe, trapping a layer of heat next to his skin. He had tried wearing boots, but the way his feet boiled inside them had proved too much to bear. Thus he went barefoot, with nothing but his robe and a bag of stolen coins.

His intentions galled him, but there seemed to be no other option. He did not want to simply disappear, to find some remote part of the wilderness and hide out for the rest of his days. Untied from Skygrip, he could not even amuse himself by accessing the sight of his bug-eyes any more. Nor could he return to Fenvarrow, where Losara would surely find him. Revenge was all he wanted, revenge against Losara, and the Dark Gods who had tricked him into raising his usurper, despite the years he’d given them serving as Caretaker
.
He owed them all nothing but hatred. As his sight narrowed to his single aim, the indignities he endured fed his resolve. It had grown less and less important that those with whom he now shared a common goal were the ancient enemies of his land.

My land?
he thought.
What land? I have no land.

Except perhaps for the piece of land upon which he currently trod. He had been here so many times, in dreams, had seemingly been so damn fated to arrive here that it felt like fitting a key into the door of the universe. Perhaps
this
was his land, if only for an instant. This was where he belonged; this was where he was meant to be.

Battu walked across fields of grass, the sun shining upon his back, crushing white flowers under his feet.

He was surprised to feel relief. Now that this painfully familiar moment was done with, surely he would not dream it any more. He was free of it, free to make his own fortune again, not just be driven inevitably to this point. He raised his cowl against the rays on his neck.

At the top of the hill ahead, ward stones stood shining in greeting. He had walked all night to get here, and it was quite deliberate that he approached in the day, when he was weakest. He wanted to show them he had nothing to hide.

He crested the hill, barely pausing before crossing the invisible barrier between the wards. There was a resistance to his passage, which would have stopped many lesser shadow creatures, but which he pushed through easily enough. He sensed a pulse of magic from the wards, knew that somewhere alarms were ringing. Not long now.

He approached a gateway in the towering walls surrounding the Open Halls. Guards shouted as they spied him and drew their swords. Battu slowed, in no particular rush. Deeply, very deeply inside him, he actually enjoyed the drama.

It did not take long for lightfists to appear, red robes whipping around their feet as they overtook the soldiers. They spread out before him, defensive light springing up around them, difficult to see in the day with his true eyes, but blazing in his magical perception. He halted, stood waiting with hands by his sides.

‘Bind him!’ shouted one of them, and together the lightfists channelled. A cage of light appeared around him. He prodded at it with his power, testing its strength. Nothing he couldn’t handle, if he wished to.

‘Who are you?’ demanded one of the lightfists. ‘Unveil yourself!’

Battu stepped up close to the bars. ‘I haven’t come to fight,’ he said. ‘I merely wish to speak with Fahren.’

‘The Throne is no doubt on his way,’ said the lightfist. ‘Your passing through the barrier was not exactly subtle.’

So, Fahren was Throne now? That might make things easier.

‘I had no need for subtlety,’ he said, shrugging.

Fahren strode through the gates, a further brace of guards at his back. Battu had never seen the man in the flesh, though often enough in dreams. Fahren no longer wore the blue–gold robes of High Mage, and seemed a little odd in trousers and a white silk shirt. Around his forehead was the Auriel, his long blond hair tied back to reveal it. He came forward, closer than any of his mages had dared, to peer at Battu.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said, guardedly curious. ‘Who are you, shadow creature, to wander through our wards so bold?’

Battu raised a hand to his cowl, and Fahren’s own sprung up in warning. Battu drew the cloth back, grinning at Fahren as he squinted through the piercing light. Fahren stared incomprehensibly at him for a moment, then his eyes widened in recognition.

‘You?’ he said. ‘No! Must be some trick.’

He waved a hand at Battu, who felt immense power touch him, sweep over him, searching out enchantments or illusions. An uncomfortable sensation it was, but he planted his feet firmly and allowed it to continue. Finally Fahren dropped his hand.

‘By Arkus, it
is
you.’

Fahren moved even closer, until they were but a hand span apart, separated only by the glowing bars that contained him.

‘Why have you come here?’

‘High Mage,’ said Battu, ‘or Throne, rather . . . we share a common foe, I think.’

Fahren nodded. ‘I had word that you were cast out of Skygrip.’

‘I was betrayed,’ said Battu, ‘by my own people. By my own gods. Well.’ His grin became a snarl. ‘Eye for an eye, and hopefully several. That is why,
my
Throne . . . I offer you allegiance.’

•

‘Lord Fahren?’

He glanced at the messenger who had appeared by his side. ‘Not now,’ he said, and returned his gaze to the room before him.

They were in the Academy of the Sun, the Open Halls’ school for mages, which Fahren had decided was the best place to keep Battu. Not only was there a holding room built for such a purpose, but here he was also surrounded by mages, hopefully deterring any thoughts of escape. Battu stood on a raised platform, from which bars of light ran from floor to ceiling. Unlike the temporary cage constructed by the lightfists outside, he would be hard pressed to get out of this one.

Varta paced back and forth before the bars. She was the High Mage now, appointed so by Fahren, though he was yet to find anybody to replace her as High Overseer. That was a role she had risen to for her tenacious ability to seek out the truth, and for that reason he had asked her here to question the fallen dark lord.

‘Why,’ Battu was saying, ‘would I risk the journey here, and throw myself on your mercy, were I not telling the truth?’ He sounded measured, as if willing to endure her questions forever. As Fahren sought for the man’s feelings, he sensed something of Battu’s determination to make them trust him.

Could it really be true? He had been agonising over who would help him wield the Stone if Bel actually managed to find it. He knew it could not be Fazel, for as soon as the Shadowdreamer learned of that unfortunate’s enduring presence, he would instantly be turned back to the service of darkness. As soon as Bel had the Stone, Fahren would convince him to order Fazel put to rest.

So they needed someone else, and for the life of him Fahren had not been able to imagine who. Yet here was Battu offering himself, apparently uncaring of his old loyalties. Was it too good to be true . . . or was it prophecy trying to live?
Did Battu hold the key to their success?

He tried not to let his
desire
to believe Battu cloud his judgement. The former dark lord had long been an enemy of Kainordas, most recently responsible for the death of Baygis. Could such travesty be forgiven, or even tolerated?

‘You would have us believe,’ Varta said, ‘that you would help us to attack he who may be the prophesied saviour of your people?’

‘High Mage,’ said Battu, ‘I am not a wise man, nor even-tempered. If you would save your time, do not go searching for reason. One thing I do not lack when it comes to this matter, however, is focus.’

He spoke like a man in control, completely at odds with his appearance. His black robe was mud-stained and torn, freckled with bits of leaf and twig. His pale arms were scratched and dirty, his face etched with an expression of anger. Only his voice remained calm, the tone even.

‘I’m sorry, my Throne, but . . .’

‘Ssh!’ Fahren snapped at the persistent messenger. ‘Leave us.’

‘Gerent Brahl would like to see you as soon as possible,’ the messenger said quickly, then fled. Irritated, Fahren supposed the man could now claim he’d delivered his message. What did Brahl want?

His gaze returned to Battu. How would it even be possible to come to this point? he wondered. One of his gifts, he liked to think, was empathy, so he tried to imagine what it would be like to have his own underlings turn against him, cast him down, throw him out . . . to know that Arkus did not care for all his years of service, and that if he stayed in Kainordas, he would be hunted by his own people. Did he see himself siding with the enemy? It was difficult, because he knew his own people would never commit such heinous betrayal, but . . . if they did . . . well, certainly he would be angry! But to knock on the door of Skygrip Castle? To say, ‘Here I am, come to offer my services’?

‘My understanding,’ Battu said to Varta, ‘is that you are skilled at the reading of minds, true? Of course it is natural for one such as I to have a few defences in place, but what about this . . . what about I 
allow
you in, unfettered. Normally any mage would baulk at such a breaching, but I’ve little I care to hide right now if it gets in the way of my revenge.’ He grinned. ‘I want you to
know
that I do not spin lies, that I have no hidden agenda.’

Fahren was impressed, but not necessarily convinced, by the offer. Battu must know that had they wished it, several mages working together could eventually retrieve anything they wanted from his mind. On the other hand, he offered freely to place himself in about the most vulnerable position it was possible for a mage to be in.
And on the third hand
, he thought,
entering an enemy’s mind is not without danger itself.

‘Do not forget where you are,’ he told Battu. ‘Should you try anything to harm Varta, you will not talk your way out of the consequences.’

‘Of course,’ said Battu. Swishing his robe around his feet, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor. ‘I open my mind willingly.’

Fahren nodded at Varta to proceed. She turned to the cage and concentrated on Battu. Her eyes went blank as she probed forth, cautiously at first. From a distance Fahren observed the mental connection grow between the two mages, on the lookout for any trick. For a full minute Varta delved, though Fahren knew that to her and Battu it would seem much longer. She shivered at one stage, but Fahren did not sense any attack – more likely there were simply things in Battu’s mind to which she did not enjoy being privy. Then the contact between them faded, she blinked, and stood staring at the caged man.

‘You see?’ he said.

Varta moved over to Fahren, who raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

‘He speaks the truth,’ she said quietly. ‘His mind is centred on this one thing, to the exclusion of all others, even of what he understands as commonsense. He knows he will be punished in the afterlife, yet he does not care – his rage is too great to be resisted. He wants Losara to pay for stealing his throne, he wants the Dark Gods to pay for . . .’ She frowned. ‘It is complicated. Apparently they never allowed him to take full flight as Shadowdreamer, instead restricting him in various ways. He feels they tricked him into raising the man who would supplant him.’

‘I see,’ said Fahren. ‘Still, no guarantees. Even if he currently thinks himself willing to betray his own people, that doesn’t mean he can’t change his mind. What we believe today we may not believe tomorrow, as he has indeed proved by being here.’

‘He is . . . directed in a way I deem unshakeable,’ said Varta. ‘Singularly obsessed, I would put it, like a shark on the hunt.’

‘Yet he does not know what we intend. He thinks we seek to destroy Losara . . . not to absorb him into Bel.’

‘A process for which we may very well need him.’

‘Indeed, but will he see that as defeating his enemy, or granting him new life in a different form?’ Sometimes Fahren couldn’t be sure himself.

‘Losara will be gone and the Dark Gods thwarted. Perhaps that will be enough?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Fahren.

The messenger slipped back into the room, looking miserable. ‘I apologise, my Throne, but the gerent has sent me back – he is very insistent that you join him.’

Fahren crossed his arms and drummed an elbow with his fingers.

‘I’m coming,’ he said. Truth be told, he could use some time to ponder. In the meantime, if he did want Battu on his side, perhaps a small gesture of faith would not be misplaced.

‘I must think on your offer,’ he told Battu. ‘In the meantime, you will not go wanting. Varta, make sure the lord Battu is brought a bed, water and food.’

‘Thank you, Throne,’ said Battu, through teeth he seemed to be trying unsuccessfully to unclench.

‘I will return,’ said Fahren, and followed the messenger out of the room.