Dark Immolation

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Christopher Husberg and coming soon from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part I: Those Left Behind

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Part II: The Drift of Stars

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Interlude: Into the Void

  Part III: Aching Faith

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Part IV: The Only Order is Chaos

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Epilogue: Imperial palace, Izet

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Christopher Husberg and coming soon from Titan Books

  Duskfall

  Blood Requiem (June 2018)

  THE CHAOS QUEEN QUINTET

  CHRISTOPHER HUSBERG

  TITAN BOOKS

  Dark Immolation

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783299171

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783299188

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: June 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2017 Christopher Husberg. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  FOR RACHEL (AGAIN),

  BECAUSE WE ARE WOVEN TOGETHER,

  YOU AND I,

  AND THIS IS AS MUCH YOURS

  AS IT IS MINE.

  PART I

  THOSE LEFT BEHIND

  1

  172nd Year of the People’s Age, dungeons of the imperial palace in Izet, Roden

  A WOMAN SLEEPS. A woman sleeps, and she dreams.

  Her dreams twist together, littered with holes, and even as she dreams the woman wonders who she is. The woman is a woman, she supposes. She’s tiellan, too, and this seems important, but the woman has difficulty defining herself in this moment. If the woman is tiellan she is also a daughter, a daughter who loves to hunt and fish, who loves to be among the trees and out on the water. If the woman is tiellan, and a daughter, then she is a wife, as well. The woman’s husband must be dead. The woman loved her husband, but when she thinks of his face the image is blurred. If the woman is tiellan, a daughter, a huntress, a fisherwoman, a wife, if she is all these things then she is at least one thing more.

  The woman is a weapon.

  But her mind shies away from this thought. The woman knows she must not think of this. The woman knows that this only brings her pain, and sorrow, and sadness.

  So, instead, the woman lets her mind wander. Her mind expands, and she begins to soar through the thoughts of those around her. That guard, walking past her door, for instance. The woman’s mind watches him, follows him, sees what he sees and knows what he knows until she becomes him.

  * * *

  Outside the sky is gray and the air is cold, and inside the air is not much warmer. Enri Crawn walks briskly through the dungeons, making one final round before he returns home to his wife.

  Enri shivers as he passes one of the cells, though Enri can’t tell whether the shiver comes from the cold or the girl in the cell. The damn tiellan girl. The girl who seems to have turned an entire empire on its head. Rumors say the girl is an assassin from Khale, that she was sent to kill the emperor. And now, the emperor lies dead. Whether the tiny girl in the cell—just a tiellan, for Canta’s sake—could have killed the most powerful man in Roden, though, does not seem likely. Almost makes him want to ask questions. But Enri has never been one for asking questions.

  Enri never much cared for the emperor. Enri Crawn will live and die a gaoler, and the emperor will never be the wiser. Enri is dully surprised by the emptiness he feels inside himself when he thinks of his emperor, dead. And the Tokal-Ceno, too. He remembers what he overheard in Wazel’s bar the other night, that a man like the emperor leaves an emptiness when he passes, a great space that demands to be filled. Such philosophical thoughts flee his mind as he exits the dreary stone dungeon and walks to his home.

  The air is not much warmer inside than it is out. His wife Lisala is in the kitchen, and so is Keiten Gliss. Enri frowns. Bloody Keiten Gliss. Gliss is one of the cooks for House Amok, and having connections to such a house—especially in times like these—is important. But Enri Crawn can’t help but wonder why the man spends so much time with his wife. Enri is of half a mind to get to the bottom of the situation… but no. Not this time, he tells himself. This time, he’s just going to eat his dinner, kick up his feet, and smoke a pipe. After all, Enri Crawn never asks questions.

  “I’d best be going,” Keiten finally says.

  Lisala smiles. “Thank you for stopping by,” she says. “We always appreciate your company.” With a thud, Enri’s booted feet kick up onto the tiny table in front of his chair, and he fishes in his coat pocket for his pipe and weed.

  * * *

  Keiten Gliss walks out into the dreary evening, already feeling the sadness of leaving Lisala. Keiten pities the poor fool Enri, of course, but Enri is not a bad man. He is not a good man either, but then again neither is Keiten. Enri simply married the wrong woman. And, with any luck, Keiten’s plan to change that will finish marinating very soon.

  It begins to rain, and Keiten curses. Winter snows are one thing—bloody cold, to be sure, but beautiful in their own way and sticking to everything. Rain, on the other hand, he despises. Rain does not make the world beautiful, only wet and slippery and annoying as all Oblivion. And, of course, today Keiten has not worn his coat. It is that time of season, just between winter and spring, where the weather can’t seem to make up its mind. Keiten pulls his jacket more tightly around him as the rain falls heavier, soaking through the fabric and through his skin.

  He rushes along the wet streets, annoyed at the rain and disappointed at leaving Lisala, until he finally reaches his destination: Castle Amok. With a sigh of relief, Keiten slips through the gate and into the courtyard, nodding at the guard, and rushes up to his quarters where he can make a warm fire.

  * * *

  Sergeant Desmon Durii, gate guard of Castle Amok, frowns at the idiot cook as he runs past, but nods in return nonetheless. Politeness never hurt a man, Desmon’s gramm used to say. Other tools hurt a man, of course, and Desmon knows a great deal about those. But not politeness.

  Rain patters on Des
mon’s armor. He looks back out into the city from his post at the gate and wonders what will happen to House Amok, to Izet, and to Roden as a whole. The emperor is dead, and Desmon does not know how to react to such news. Even less so to the death of the Tokal-Ceno, leader of a religion that had not existed in Roden for centuries, but had re-emerged in the last decade. Desmon’s sympathy would lie much more with the emperor than the Tokal, if his own lord had not been so involved in the Ceno re-emergence.

  Lord Daval Amok has treated Desmon well, and thus while Lord Amok grieves, Desmon grieves, too. But tensions rise as houses swirl around the vacant throne; Emperor Grysole left no children or heirs. His rumored betrothal to Andia of House Luce is a topic of constant conversation. House Luce, of course, has made the plans for this betrothal public in an attempt to place Andia on the throne, but without any proof their claim is still weak. House Amok, while it doesn’t have the largest army, or the greatest wealth of the noble families of Roden, is still a high house and thus its members are eligible for the throne. Whether Desmon’s master wants that burden or not, Desmon is not sure. Desmon has always considered Daval Amok a timid man.

  Desmon worries about what will happen in the coming weeks. There will be more assassinations as the noble houses vie for the throne. Which is why Desmon Durii must be on guard. His lord is under threat, and it is Desmon’s job, and the job of his fellow soldiers, to protect Daval Amok.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant Durii,” someone behind him says.

  Desmon turns to see a young boy, barely fourteen, fidgeting behind him. Desmon straightens, absently brushing imaginary dust from his armor and instead flicking rainwater everywhere.

  “What is it, boy?”

  “Your replacement is late,” the boy says. “Weslin wanted me to tell you so.”

  Desmon sighs. “Very well.” It’s not the first time Weslin’s been late, Canta knows. Desmon will have words to exchange with Weslin, to be sure. He could bring Captain Urstadt into it, but Desmon prefers to keep his own men in line. “Thanks for letting me know, boy. On your way now.”

  * * *

  I’m not a boy, Fil Parce thinks, as he runs back towards the keep of Castle Amok to escape the rain. If Mistress Hamma thinks he’s spent even one more moment outside than he needs to, she’ll make him scrub garderobes for a week. Fil sees two maids exiting the narrow servants’ door on the side of the keep. Fil picks up his pace and slips through the door, barely making it inside. Fil smiles at the cries of surprise from the maids outside. Fil doesn’t care; they don’t understand his game.

  Fil, his work done for the day, trots through the servants’ hallway. Desmon is only a house guard. If Desmon were as good as everyone said, he’d be in the emperor’s personal army, or even a Reaper. Instead, Desmon is here, at Castle Amok, guarding a gate that no one cares about.

  Fil reaches the door that leads into the great hall of the keep, covered in tapestries, paintings, and glistening suits of armor. No, a good man is a good warrior, but he also makes something of his life. Desmon’s life doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  Fil’s life, on the other hand, will be different. He has been training with the sword, which will surely help. Or rather with a stick that he figures is about the size of a sword. Weslin has been helping him. Fil does not like Weslin. While he has some good things to say about sword fighting, he says strange things to Fil, things that make Fil uncomfortable. Fil thinks about telling Desmon. Perhaps Desmon will want to help Fil learn to fight, too. But Weslin has told Fil not to mention anything about their training to Desmon.

  The door he waits by opens slightly, and Master Frenn walks through, head held high. Master Frenn looks down disapprovingly at Fil, but before the old man can say anything, Fil slips through the door before it closes. Fil smiles. Twice in a row. A lucky day!

  Fil walks through the great hall. He does not care much for the tapestries, or the paintings, but he loves the suits of armor. He imagines himself wearing one someday, fighting great battles. For good measure, Fil takes the fencer’s stance that Weslin has been teaching him, and holds his arm out as if he were holding a sword. But, before he can take one lunge, Fil hears a soft laugh behind him.

  “Fighting ghosts again, Fil?”

  Fil turns to see Cova Amok, Lord Daval’s youngest daughter, smiling at him from the end of the hall. Fil immediately blushes, because he thinks that Cova Amok is certainly the most beautiful person he has ever seen, and now she has caught him play-acting, again, and thinks of him as a boy just as Desmon does. Cova is only five years his senior, but she acts like she is his mother.

  “I was just practicing,” Fil says, looking down at the ground.

  “Practicing is for practice yards, not noble halls,” Cova says. The light-blue silk dress she wears falls perfectly over her hips and onwards to the floor. Fil is careful not to look at Cova’s dress, or the shape beneath it, for too long. Mistress Hamma has warned him that to do so is a serious offense against those of noble birth. Fil has to take one look, though. He doesn’t think Cova is the most beautiful thing in the world for nothing. He sees her face, fair and framed by hair the color of spun gold. Fil smiles.

  * * *

  Cova Amok grins back at Fil, expecting him to say something, but he does not. Cova feels a stab of regret—perhaps her comment was too harsh. She does not care whether the lad “practices” in the great hall or not. But now he stares at her, eyes wide, that silly grin on his face. Cova sighs.

  “I’d love to stay and talk,” she says, “but the hour grows late.”

  Fil nods almost imperceptibly, eyes still wide. Cova shakes her head, and crosses the great hall. She is fond of the boy, even if he is absent-minded. Even if he stares. Cova has never appreciated the stares of men, and makes no exception for Fil. But he is only a child, and can hardly know better. Men are different. Men lie, men change. Even Cova’s father, who she has loved and respected her whole life, has changed. Cova can’t quite put her finger on how, but something is off. The way he speaks. The look in his eyes when he smiles at her. He is still her father, but he is not the same. Cova knows her father was close with the Tokal-Ceno and the emperor, and such deaths would change any nobleman. Canta knows, they have an effect on Cova.

  Perhaps I have changed, Cova thinks. Perhaps I’m the one who is different. Cova is a grown woman, now—the youngest of four, but no longer a child. The world’s worries have become her worries; the looming war threatens her family and the future of their house. Cova reaches out a hand, brushing against a tapestry. Her mother, if she were still alive, would tell her not to touch. Cova had never gotten along with her mother when she was alive, but she misses her now.

  Cova walks up the steps at the end of the great hall, up the floors of the keep, to her family’s chambers. She walks past the rooms that once belonged to her brothers. They are all married now, living on estates outside Izet or moved to other cities. Cova is all but alone now. Cova sees the door to her father’s chamber is wide open, and inside he stands tall and still. He turns, perhaps at the sound of her footsteps.

  “Cova,” he says, and smiles, but again Cova is disturbed at how hollow his eyes look.

  “Hello, Father,” Cova says, returning the smile and curtsying politely.

  “Come in,” Cova’s father says. “Come in and sit with me, like you did when you were a little girl. I could have Rolof ascend and read us some of Tolokin’s Tales ; you always loved them as a child.”

  Cova does not respond for a moment, taken aback by her father’s sudden nostalgia. They have not spoken of such things in years. A part of Cova wants to do as her father says, to feel that connection with him once more. But another part of Cova compels her to remain outside the door.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she says, “perhaps another night. I’m very tired, and I need to sleep.” Cova can’t say why, but she does not trust her father in this moment. She does not know what he will do or say to her, alone in his chamber.

  “Of course, daughter,” Lord
Amok says. “Another time, indeed. Sleep well, my dear.”

  * * *

  Lord Daval Amok smiles as his daughter departs. He loves his daughter, wants only the best for her. Just as he loves his family and Roden itself. Just as he loves the Sfaera, and will do anything to make it the best it can be. Lord Daval Amok walks silently through his chamber towards the large looking-glass above his mantel. He is old, but the pain that once plagued his joints and the fatigue that once beset him after a simple flight of stairs are no longer present.

  * * *

  Lord Daval Amok stops before the looking-glass and gazes into it, seeing his own reflection. But, looking back at him is not the old man he has grown so used to seeing, skin wrinkled, gray hair receding, eyes dark and hooded. No, what stares back at him is something very different. A darkness. A skull, bare and black as if charred and polished, wreathed in dark flame.

  * * *

  Winter woke with a start, cowering in the corner of her cell, although she knew immediately that she had not been sleeping. Her mind seemed looser, lately, prone to wander and latch on to the closest consciousness. Winter had almost grown accustomed to it; the sensation was not unpleasant, and anything that could get her away from this wretched cell, from reality, from the memories of what had happened Before, was welcome.

  This time was different, however. This time was not welcome. The man whose mind she had entered at the last was not a mind she had ever entered before. And what she saw as the man looked into the mirror…

  A darkness. A black skull wreathed in dark fire.

  The image flashed in Winter’s mind when she closed her eyes. It reminded her of what happened Before, of the terrible things she had seen, and with those sights the feelings, and with those feelings knowledge.

  Winter clenched her fists, clenched her jaw. Took deep, slow breaths. But the tightness in her chest, the constricting force around her heart, did not leave her.

  Murderer, a voice whispered in her mind.

  Winter shook her head, rocking back and forth on the floor of her cell. She was alone. Her friends were gone. Her power was gone. She was alone, and only death awaited her.