Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

“Blessed High Shin and Raijin,” the other men intoned almost at once while bowing.

High Shin Jerem coughed.

Blushing, Ryne tore his eyes away from Irmina and the slight twitch of her lips.

“As I was saying. Your fight is elsewhere, Master Waldron.”

Ryne frowned. “There’s at least one daemon at Bastair and maybe a Skadwaz. Why would I go some place else to fight?”

High Shin Jerem’s bony hand snaked out of the flared ends of his robes’ sleeves. “Study the map once more.” The markers for the enemy forces repositioned again. “Think about how many they needed to destroy the Alzari. Then consider how many Alzari now possibly belong to the shade. What do you see?”

Pursing his lips, Ryne counted a third of the Alzari as having succumbed to the shade’s influences. With the mercenaries among them, this army was unlike anything he remembered encountering. So if they wanted Cendos and Bastair so badly why not bring all their forces? Why send what may well be only a third? Was it a trap? Where was the remainder of this army? And why avoid all the towns and cities they had, leaving the chance to be struck from behind by the massed Ostanian armies?

Ryne’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a double feint. Cendos and Bastair aren’t their true targets either. They want us to fight there.” He traced a straight line across the map from the two towns to a city thousands of miles beyond them to the northeast. “Their target is Castere.”

Breaths drew in from everyone but Jerem. The old High Ashishin smiled. “I knew you would see it if nudged a bit. However, it’s worse than you think. It appears Castere was already being ruled by one of Amuni’s servants.”

“Voliny?” Ryne scrunched up his face.

“Or Mayor Bertram if you would rather,” Jerem said.

Breath quickening, muscles tightening, Ryne’s bloodlust rose in a red torrent, filling his body, his eyes, stiffening him. Hagan, you and your pipe. Vana and Vera…

Ancel reached a tentative hand to his sword. It had become a habit although he didn’t need to touch it to tell the weapon was there. The soothing warmth of his bond to the sword told him it sat in the scabbard at his hip. The same for his mother’s charm around his neck. He could feel the warm link of his mother through it, calling to him in earnest.

“We go on foot from here,” A grimace played across Galiana’s pale face as she dismounted on the path several hundred feet before the last turn to his parents’ winery.

Gloomy twilight hung in the air. Clouds scudded above, so dark and thick they choked out any semblance of the setting sun. Shadows cast by the oaks and pines of the Greenleaf Forest lay across their path, making the road in the distance near invisible before it disappeared at the next bend. Thicker still was the silence around them.

Kachien dismounted next, her eyes flitting from side to side to take in their surroundings. Ancel and Guthrie followed soon after. The innkeeper secured their mounts before leading the animals among the trees, returning a few moments later. Charra remained next to Ancel, his gaze riveted on the woods.

“What does my mother have to do with any of this? Why would shadelings be after her?”

“Everything,” Galiana answered, her white dress standing out within the darkness of the area.

“I don’t understand,” Ancel said.

“You soon will,” Galiana said. I-” She stumbled on the uneven ground.

Guthrie caught her. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Shin Galiana?”

Sagging against Guthrie for a moment, Galiana squeezed here eyes tight and took several deep breaths. When she opened them, she spoke again, her voice a hoarse reflection of itself. “There is no one left but me who could do this. Now I know why they attacked at the Spellforge Hour. It was to tempt us into expending as much power as possible to save Eldanhill. It will still be another day before any of the other Matii are recovered as much as I am. Whoever or whatever that man in black was who defeated Stefan, he will return. After all, dawn is when power waxes greatest for males. Whatever he plans will happen soon.”

“Let’s rest for a moment,” Guthrie implored.

Galiana gave the innkeeper’s hand a gentle touch and a squeeze. “A moment we do not have. Follow.” She pushed herself from Guthrie’s arms and headed toward the winery. “As for your mother’s purpose, let me ask you. How does the sword feel?”

Ancel glanced to his hip tentatively. “I–I-It feels like it belongs.” More than that, the sword felt like an extension of his own body.

“Like your mother, the weapon is a Key. A Key only certain Setian can be bonded to.”

Setian? Kachien’s words to Jillian came flooding back and his stomach knotted. “What do the Setian have to do with us?”

“Most of Eldanhill’s Council are Setian. Most folk in Eldanhill are either Setian refugees or from one of the old clans before the Shadowbearer War.”

Ancel felt dizzy. He stopped in his tracks. “Th-That’s impossible. The Setian no longer exist.” A nudge from Charra set his legs moving again.

“Oh, we do,” Galiana said. “But you and most others have always been taught differently. Seventy years of teaching such a thing all across Denestia can beget such a belief.”

“The Devout?” Ancel whispered, wide-eyed.

“Yes. You’ve always been the smartest of my students.” The pride in Galiana’s voice was plain. “That’s but one of their roles.”

Ancel swallowed. How much of what he’d learned had been a fabrication? “If we’re Setian, why hasn’t he Tribunal killed us? Surely they know?”

“They do, but they need us as we need them.”

“Why?”

“How has the Tribunal ruled for over a thousand years?”

In his mind, Ancel leafed through books on Tribunal politics. “They maintain a hold and involvement in Granadian politics, through the use of Ashishin to enhance everything from inventions, education, trade, crops, mining to health to even military stability. By establishing the Streamean religion here in Granadia, they united the once feuding kingdoms under a common premise of enlightenment through worship while still maintaining individuality. They quelled any upstart rebellions, destroyed the shade in numerous wars, flung back every invasion from the Erastonians to the Everlanders, and Granadia has prospered ever since.

“They appoint new Exalted every fifty years who are staunch backers of all it means to be a High Ashishin of the Tribunal. Through rigorous trials, their Order is maintained. None can become Exalted without the trials.”

“True, indeed. But it is more than just an appointment. The Exalted have been the same High Ashishin for the past five hundred years.”

Ancel frowned. She couldn’t mean the same exact people could she?

As if sensing his uncertainty, Galiana continued, “The Tribunal procured a method to extend their lives. But not without a price. Their method required them to take a life, but it cost them their youth, their vitality. The need only increased with each use. In the end, driven by this need, the Tribunal started war after war to procure the necessary sela. Sometimes, they resorted to attacking villages in the wilds of Ostania under the guise of slavers or raiders.”

Speechless, Ancel could only stare. Galiana’s words made the Tribunal out to be much like the shadelings.

“Until they discovered we Setian possessed the secret of using essences absorbed and reproduced by kinai to halt aging altogether. Then came the Shadowbearer War. In return for our safety, for the preservation of our race, we agreed to serve the Tribunal, providing them with our Forging.”

Ancel’s fist clenched on the sword’s hilt. In essence, his people were little more than slaves. He looked over to Kachien, but she showed no reaction as if all this was old news to her. “What has all this got to do with my mother and the shadelings?”