Embers of a Broken Throne (2 page)

C
hapter 1

T
he Toscali warrior wasn’t alive. Neither was he dead. He possessed a heartbeat, marched, fought, and had a dozen other nuances besides, but he was not alive. Clad in white and gold armor covered with glyphs and runes like the others of his ilk, he carried a shining spear, and watched Ancel with eyes that hinted at sentience. But Ancel knew better than to think the apparent intelligence was the construct’s own design. It was a glimmer of memory, imprinted into the Etching from which Ancel had called forth the warrior, a record of what this construct did best: fight.

Despite all its ability, the Toscali lacked the most important requirement for life. Sela essences, that which powered the soul, made things more than just animate. The thought of sela brought on a chill unmatched by the weather and the swirling wind.

Ancel could no more Forge the essence into his construct than he could sprout wings and fly. Months spent practicing in his free moments, often late at night or the hours before first light, had seen him develop this, one of his proudest achievements. Hidden from prying eyes in one of the numerous back alleys in the abandoned city, he had begun to master this skill by choosing smaller objects from his Etchings, like birds and insects, drawing from the memory of the Chainin replica Ryne had taught him to create.

Charra would often watch him as he was doing now, lying on his stomach in the shadow of one of Aldazhar’s ruined buildings as if he was indeed a simple daggerpaw. He’d grown to the size of a large horse, dispelling the idea of his normalcy.

“Begin,” Ancel commanded.

The warrior shifted into a fighting stance, and then attacked the empty air, booted feet flowing over broken cobbles and uneven ground without missing a step. The movements were familiar, twists on the Styles and Stances named after the essences they imitated, but adjusted for the choice of weapon. The spear became a blur, Ancel following each strike and parry as if they were his own, as if he were the opponent. He imagined using the two swords he’d taken to carrying now, one in the scabbard on his hip, the shorter one on his back, its hilt jutting above his left shoulder.

“You’re at it again, I see,” Irmina said from the mouth of the alley, the waning sun behind her.

“Didn’t we have a talk about sneaking up on me?” Ancel focused on the construct, watching for its reaction to the intrusion. It continued to whip its spear without pause.

“You did, but when have I listened to you? Or anyone else for that matter?” She stepped into the space at the end of the street, eyes twinkling with amusement. Ebony hair fell past her shoulders, and she was clad in leather armor and a short cloak.

“You do have a point.” He smiled. “And you, Charra, I know you heard her coming, why wouldn’t you warn me?” Charra cocked his head to one side, yawned, and continued to gaze at the construct.

She sauntered over to him, making a show of her swaying walk. Toscali warrior forgotten, he held his breath.

“It’s not nice to leave me alone in bed,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I needed to time to think.”

“The other evenings and nights you did the same thing? You had to think then too? Besides, this doesn’t look much like thinking.”

“But it is. I’m considering how best to deal with our enemies, and there’s no better method for learning than constant practice.”

“True.” She snaked a hand around his waist, the scent of bellflowers radiating from her. “But you also need rest.”

“I can rest when I die,” he said, averting his eyes before the urge to take her to bed overwhelmed him.

She snorted her disapproval. “You sound like Ryne.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“When your mood turns dark like his, it is.”

Ancel understood her point. She’d brought it up enough times, and in truth she might have been right. But what was he supposed to feel? A year had passed since they entered Ostania, and they were still struggling to reach Benez, constant obstacles in their path, and had lost many to disease, desertion, and shadelings. Then there was the link to his mother at the back of his mind, often recalled due to Father’s outbursts and obvious instability. Although no one could hold those against Stefan, not after the torture he suffered at the hands of the Tribunal’s Matii, they were no less troubling.

“I’m trying my best, but it’s hard,” he admitted.

“I know. I don’t envy you one bit.”

He hugged her, and together they took in the Toscali’s session. The scuff of a boot announced someone else’s presence. A cough followed.

“I’m not allowed any privacy, am I?” Ancel turned to face Mirza.

“You’ve become too important for that.” Mirza was a Lieutenant now, and filled out the dark green uniform of his position. His flame-colored hair, done in a ponytail, and his matching braided beard, did not suit his rank or garb.

“How did you find me anyway?”

“One can hardly miss those Pathfinders of yours. Their silver armor can be easy to spot even when they’re hidden inside buildings, but following her was simpler.” Smiling, Mirz nodded toward Irmina.

Annoyed, Ancel shook his head. He had asked Cantor to keep the Pathfinders away, but he should have known better. They were fanatical in their roles as his personal guard. The few among them with no aura bothered him. He couldn’t help it, knowing they were netherlings but not being able to tell if they were a threat. The other men and women among his people with similar traits posed the same problem. And he dare not attack them. The results would be catastrophic.

“I thought I lost you,” Irmina said to Mirza.

Ancel recalled a time at the start of the journey when Mirza still bore some animosity toward the woman. As the two spent more time together, often on scouting expeditions, that dislike had lessened.

“I wanted you to think that way.” Mirza shrugged and held out his hand.

Grumbling under her breath Irmina removed her hand and fished into the pouch at her waist. Clinks followed as she produced several coins. “Four hawks.”

Mirza took the coins, teeth showing in a wide grin. “Nice doing business with you.”

“I can’t believe you two.” Ancel glanced from one to the other.

“What?” Mirza asked innocently.

“You interrupted me for a wager?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Mirza said, “but no.” His expression became grave. “We have a problem.”

Behind them the Toscali’s spear hummed.

“Stop,” Ancel ordered, letting the command flow through his link to the construct.

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.

C
hapter 2

T
he 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 besides 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.