Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

Galiana hesitated before she answered. “No, but the information must be in the Chronicles somewhere. Regardless, they are willing to help by giving us a piece of land for those we can manage to save. They say the worst of what is to come may still be avoided if we can stop Nerian.”

Her hesitation bothered Stefan, but he pushed it from his mind. The possibility gave him new hope. “What did they want in exchange? The sword?”

“No,” Galiana said. “Actually, they gave you permission to keep it.”

“They did? Why?”

Galiana shrugged. “They did not say, but they insisted that it was yours to keep. As for their price, they had several. The Alzari and Dagodin we do manage to save will be placed in schooling towns within Granadia. Mysteras, they called them. Their jobs will be to teach those who are born from any Matus bloodlines. Also, we will not be allowed to have all the survivors in one place. They must be divided and spread across Granadia.”

“Makes sense,” Stefan said. “Use our Matii to gain knowledge of Alzari Forges, while at the same time keeping us separated in case we consider betraying them.” He frowned. “You’re not finished, are you?”

“No,” Galiana said. “Their other requirement was far worse.” She took a deep breath. “They wish for the Alzari High Council to turn over the secret we have held for several thousand years. I … I … still do not know how I can tell them …”

Brows drawing together even tighter, Stefan waited.

“They want the secret of our Forging that decreases aging among the Setian Matii.”

Stefan’s mind churned. The Exalted already outlived most or so he thought. “Why?”

“The Exalted are ancient withered things,” Galiana said with a sigh. “Apparently, whatever Forge they themselves used to increase their life spans did not halt the aging process. It also involved killing many in order to use the dying person’s essences to increase their own life. I have learned that the kingdom skirmishes in Granadia are fashioned by the Tribunal for this reason. It is partially why they involved themselves in our conflicts … to gain access to essences from the dying.”

“No, that can’t be true.”

“It is. The Exalted take lives to lengthen theirs.”

Stefan felt a weakness in his legs. He had thought he was doing the right thing; instead, he was leading his people from one monster to another. But what choice did he have? If the Chronicles were true, and he did not follow through with the plan, the Setian as a people would be no more. When he met Galiana’s gaze, an overwhelming sadness reflected in her expression. “Is there something else?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“Nothing.” Galiana gave a slow shake of her head. She averted her eyes. “I–I will tell the Exalted we accept.”

Somehow, he didn’t believe her. She was keeping some other news hidden from him. At this point though, what they would be forced to do seemed terrible enough. If indeed there was more, he hoped Galiana told him eventually. He prayed she did so before time ran out. Reluctantly, he nodded.

Head down, Stefan left her. He trudged upstairs to share what he’d learned with Thania and spend some time with his children before the King summoned him once more. A solitary tear trickled down his face. He lacked the will to wipe his cheek.

War was coming. Death was coming.

“Dear Ilumni,” he prayed. “Show me a way to survive.”

Tobal had once been a prosperous Harnan town at the edge of the Mondros Forest. Now, the dead and scavengers inhabited its streets and rundown buildings. They hung out of windows, lay on the russet-splattered cobbles, perched on the roofs, or dug into their next meal. The stench of death overrode that of char, and the day’s heat made it worse. The odor crawled up Stefan Dorn’s nose and threatened to choke him. Covering his mouth with his hand, he fought down bile.

Crows and ravens pecked at bloated corpses. A lapra, its muzzle and body the size of a large dog, perched on four of its six legs as it tore flesh from a young girl’s remains. The brown-furred beast ignored Stefan’s approach. His arrow took the creature in the chest. The lapra keeled over. Their caws a chorus of protests, the scavenger birds took flight in a black ripple.

“This is all they leave behind,” Elder Hurst said in a quiet voice. Near seven feet, like most Harnan, his shoulders slumped as he regarded the carnage. “May Humelen and the Forms embrace them,” he prayed.

Behind the Harnan rode High Ashishin Clarice in her crimson robes with its silver sleeves. The dark-haired woman kept her face expressionless and back straight, but from her pallor, Stefan could tell she found the slaughter troubling.

This was not the first such town he’d seen after an Erastonian attack, nor was it the second or even the tenth. He’d witnessed too many massacres to count now. Most times the inhabitants were Setian. Since the day the Unvanquished had been defeated, almost fifteen years ago, the Erastonians proved to be an implacable enemy. They spared no one.

However, the dead within the town did not compare to what shadelings wrought. People who died to Erastonian swords were still able to see the gods. Shadelings took a person’s life and their soul. They created more of their kind from death. That was the future if both the Erastonians and Nerian weren’t stopped. The genocide was beginning with the Setian. Where it would end, Stefan wished he knew.

Since that first day, Nerian had not taken part in any further battles. He remained in Benez as the Erastonians countered his armies at every turn. Stefan was sick of defeat and his people’s suffering, but before he could take on Nerian, he had to deal with the invaders.

“They can be turned aside,” Stefan said. “But for that I will need help.” He nodded to the High Shin. “From both of you.”

“You bring this cataclysm down on our people and now you beg for assistance?” Elder Hurst shook his head, lips curled in disgust.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Stefan said, “but the Setian have lost more than anyone.” Even as he said those last words, he regretted them.

Elder Hurst’s face darkened with a rage so intense, Stefan thought the man might attempt to attack him. If not for the High Shin’s presence as an intermediary, and the fact the Harnan followed Formist worship, which preached serenity, Stefan would have spurred his horse to avoid the Elder’s possible strike. As it was, Hurst muttered a prayer and calmed himself.

“Words can’t convey how I feel.” Stefan hoped the man heard the sincerity in his voice. “This was never my intention. If the choice had been mine, I wouldn’t have ventured into Everland.”

“There is always a choice,” Clarice said.

“Simple enough to say when your family isn’t about to die,” Stefan said in bitter retort.

“Why should we help you?” Elder Hurst drew rein next to the piled remains of children. “You caused all of this. Why should we not call our people back to the Nevermore … to the safety of the Stone?”

Shuddering, Stefan averted his eyes from the corpses as a sudden picture of Anton and Celina among them formed in his head. He took a moment before he answered. When he did, he met the Elder’s pitiless gaze. “The Erastonians won’t stop until they suffer a defeat, but at least they are human. Retreating to the Nevermore will not save you. On the other hand, if Nerian wins,” he gestured toward the bodies without looking at them, “things will get worse. We must act now while there’s a chance to prevent further suffering for your people.”