Dark Immolation Read online

  This has happened before, Winter thought, and she remembered the Ceno monks who had attacked her on the River Arden. She had taken frost then, but it hadn’t worked. Something had blocked her.

  Winter rushed to the bars on the door of her cell. The gaoler jumped back in surprise, but Winter only snarled at him. She was looking for someone else. She scanned the dank corridor outside of her cell as much as the limited space would allow. It was dark, lit only sporadically by dull torches. Winter couldn’t see anyone.

  “I know you’re there,” she called out. “You’re blocking me.”

  No response came from the darkness. Hubb looked at her like she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had.

  Winter reached a tendron into the shadows, but still nothing happened. “You can’t block me forever,” Winter said. “You can’t hold me here.” She knew the moment she said the words that they were untrue; she had no idea how long these people could block her powers, and as long as they could, they could keep her here until the day she died.

  Still no response came from the darkness.

  “You’d best calm down, girl,” Hubb said. “No use getting upset.”

  Winter, the frost still burning in her veins, did not look at Hubb. She turned away from her cell door and collapsed to the ground. She let the effects of faltira take her away, away from her cell, away from her solitude, away from her pain, and she began to drift.

  * * *

  The woman does not dream because she no longer sleeps. She lies on a filthy pile of straw in one corner of the cell, legs angled awkwardly beneath her, arms outstretched. She is uncomfortable but the feeling is vague and distant. Sensation no longer matters. The voices in the woman’s head, whispering and whispering, seem to no longer matter, either.

  Murderer, they whisper.

  Harbinger. Something new. Something she has not heard before. Something she does not understand.

  Revenge, another part whispers. That part of her that still thinks she has control. That still thinks what she does matters. Punish those who hurt us. Avenge the fallen.

  But another part of the woman wonders why revenge is necessary. Those she loves are dead. A permanent condition, and once it takes hold that person ceases to exist and enters the inescapable pull of Oblivion.

  The woman is not dead. She knows that well enough. And, quite clearly, she does not wish to be dead. She does not fear much, anymore, but that is one thing she does: ceasing to exist. True oblivion. Nothingness.

  But, beyond that fear, the woman feels nothing. The dungeon does not frighten her; loneliness does not frighten her, although there is a faint tug at her mind asking what the difference truly is between loneliness while living and loneliness in death. She responds to herself with the assertion that in living, at least she is alone with herself, while in death, she is alone without herself.

  The woman feels sadness for those lost, but even that is only a dull ache, where it was once a tortured hollowing of her insides.

  She lies back and lets her mind drift, lets it jump. She wonders whether she could just leave her body behind, and live in the minds of others. Perhaps she could be free, both of her dungeon cell and the prison of her body.

  Then, her mind fixes upon the person closest to her.

  * * *

  Hubb worries about his brother, Darb. Darb has fallen in with rough company, rougher than either of them is used to. They have always enjoyed the occasional smoke of tark leaf, or even a hit of devil’s dust when they can afford it. Darb has been spending more and more of his time, and silver, on such things. Darb has even told Hubb that he’s tried hero. Hubb has not asked Darb how he’s been able to afford hero; the drug is the most expensive thing, measure for measure, that Hubb can imagine buying. Now Darb owes hard men hard money, and Hubb has no way of helping him. Between his wages as a gaoler and his time spent bouncing at the Trundleback, he barely has enough to support either of them—

  The woman jumps from Hubb’s mind, unable to listen to his thoughts anymore. She jumps into the person nearest Hubb, and keeps jumping again and again.

  —Huri can’t believe he’s still in this bloody dungeon when his parents should have bailed him out long—

  —Grante wishes he could tell stories like his father—

  —wonders whether her mother noticed her throwing up this morning—

  —can’t wait to get home to play with his newborn son—

  —watches the people around her, hating them—

  —thinks the Lords’ Council shouldn’t—

  —waits for her husband—

  —sees how sorry—

  —doesn’t realize—

  —loves—

  —herself—

  —no longer—

  And suddenly the woman’s mind travels far away. It is a sensation the likes of which she has never experienced; it is a sense of traveling a great distance and looking at things from a distant perspective, or perhaps the opposite, traveling far inward, moving in so close on things that they become completely different. She finds herself in what looks very much like the night sky. She thinks she is floating, but she can’t be sure. Millions upon millions of tiny lights, looking for all the world like stars but of infinitely different colors, surround her on all sides. She sees varying shades of white and gold, countless others of red, blue, green, purple, orange, and other colors she can’t fathom.

  She looks down at herself, sees her hands and her feet, her body, but she is no longer clothed in the rough, reeking burlap that she has worn since the first day of her imprisonment. Instead, she wears the dark leather clothing Kali the assassin gave her, tight-fitting and sleek, in a memory outside of time.

  The woman takes a step forward and her foot lands on an unseen surface; she can still see millions and millions of the tiny star-lights below her. Ripples of light echo away from her foot, like multicolored ripples from a stone tossed into still water. She takes another step, light waving away from where she treads.

  In between the stars is the blackest of blacks, a true nothingness that reminds her of what it is she fears, the only thing she fears. Hello? she shouts, but her mouth does not open, nor does air move through her lungs. Is anyone here? Can anyone hear me? She wonders, for a brief moment, if this is death, if they have killed her, after all.

  As soon as the thought enters her mind, she knows that is not this. While she is alone in this space, she does not feel alone. The lights around her radiate meaning. No, the death she fears couldn’t be this forgiving. The death she fears could never be this connected.

  But, through the connectivity she feels, she does notice something dark on the horizon. A shape, moving towards her. The shape looks to be a giant, looks far, far bigger than the woman herself, and she feels fear. She takes a few steps back, color and light rippling with each footstep, but the shade continues to advance.

  What are you? the woman asks, her voice timid within her own head, but the shade does not respond, if it hears her at all. It only presses forward, growing bigger, larger, blocking out a multitude of the small star-lights. The shadow grows, and the lights dim and fade. Fear grips the woman’s heart, wraps its sharp claws around her, and she closes her eyes, wanting to be anywhere but facing this shade.

  And, just like that, the woman returns to herself. She feels the familiar pull of her own body. She opens her eyes, and she is in the dungeon, the orange glow of torchlight leaking through the bars of her cell door. She is once more alone.

  7

  Council chamber of the imperial palace, Izet

  DAVAL SLIPPED QUIETLY INTO the council chamber and sat toward the back of the room, observing. The Ruling Council—the group chosen both to help the emperor rule, and to rule in his absence—had already begun their meeting.

  The ornate throne at the head of the long table drew Daval’s eyes immediately. The throne, made of gold and glass, was reserved for the emperor. It was, of course, empty.

  Not for much longer, if Daval could help it.

&
nbsp; His eyes met those of Kirkan Mandiat, the emperor’s First Counselor, seated at the right hand of the throne. Mandiat nodded to Daval. “The Council acknowledges the presence of Lord Daval Amok.”

  Each member of the Ruling Council turned in their chairs to regard him, and Daval bowed in greeting.

  “I assume he’s here for our discussion about House Farady.” Hirman Luce, Second Counselor to the emperor, did not like Daval. Daval did not care for the man either, but he was a strong contender in the succession. Luce sat at the left hand of the throne, opposite Mandiat.

  “I’m only here to observe,” Daval said, bowing once more. It was a lord’s right, of course, to observe the workings of the Ruling Council. Daval wouldn’t have much say in the Council’s decisions unless he filed a formal petition, but he could learn and prepare for however the Council’s decisions might affect his house.

  Of course, he was also there for the Council’s discussion on House Farady. Many already suspected his involvement in the house’s demise, which was advantageous, but it wouldn’t do to acknowledge such a thing publicly.

  “Can we continue?” Jemma Rowady, the Cantic high priestess of Roden, sat next to Mandiat, frowning at Daval.

  Not surprising. The Cantic Denomination had been the only religion of Roden for decades. Now the Ceno order and the worship of the Scorned Gods had revived, and Daval was at the head of it. It was a shame that Daval, as Tokal-Ceno, did not have a position on the Ruling Council. Emperor Grysole had been about to grant that right to the previous Tokal, before his demise. It did not matter much now. Daval would control the Ruling Council soon enough.

  Mandiat nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Our next item of business is the dome of the throne hall, and the repairs to be made to the imperial palace. Leader Dagnatar, have you found a lead architect?”

  Arstan Dagnatar, Roden’s merchant leader, was a tall, thin man, young for his office. He had sharp eyes behind the rounded spectacles he wore, and was quite handsome.

  “We have, Councilor. A woman, by the name of Forst. She is a—” Dagnatar stopped, glaring at the snickering man across the table from him. Borce Kuglen, the Watch Commander of Izet, was a large man with a graying beard, a growing bald spot on the top of his head, and a face that, for whatever reason, was perpetually flushed. “Did I say something funny?” Dagnatar asked, frowning at Borce.

  Kuglen grunted. “You said a woman was going to redesign the Great Dome of the throne hall. And, yes, I find that funny.”

  “What’s so funny about it?” High Priestess Rowady interjected.

  As the Council descended into an argument about the pros and cons of a female architect, two figures approached Daval. A man and a woman in dark-green robes, cowls pulled back. Both knelt before Daval.

  “Rise,” Daval muttered. “What is your report?”

  “We administered the drug as you ordered, Tokal,” the man said. His name was Torun, and he was one of Daval’s most trusted servants in the Ceno order.

  “The block was effective?”

  Raya, Daval’s second-in-command, nodded. “I made sure of it myself.”

  “And you felt no threats to that block?”

  Raya’s lips pursed. “No, Tokal,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “No… threats.”

  “Good,” Daval said. “We don’t know the extent of the woman’s powers. She is not like the other psimancers we have dealt with, that much I know. As long as we keep giving her the drug, we’ll need to post Ceno guards with the blocking ability near her at all times.”

  “It will be done, Tokal.”

  “Is there anything else?” Daval asked.

  “No, Tokal,” Torun said.

  Raya was silent. Daval watched her thoughtfully. “You’ve something to say, Raya?” he asked.

  The woman frowned. “Why are we toying with the tiellan, Tokal?”

  Daval took a deep breath. Of course Raya would be the one to ask such a question. That was why the woman was his second.

  “You’re wondering why we don’t kill her?” Daval whispered. “You’re wondering why we don’t eliminate someone who could be such a threat to our cause?”

  “With respect, Tokal, she has already threatened our cause. She killed your predecessor, and…” Raya looked around the room again. “And she nearly thwarted the Rising. She is a danger to us all.”

  Daval nodded. What Raya said was true; the tiellan girl was a danger. His own first instinct had been to kill her. But there was a power greater than Daval that ran things, now. A power that understood what he could not. Azael’s—the Fear Lord’s—instructions rang clear in his mind. She is the key to everything. Convince her. And if she can’t be convinced, she must be coerced. Now that they had given her frost, it would soon be time for the next phase of Daval’s plan.

  “She is a danger,” Daval agreed, “but she is something else, too. She could be our greatest weapon in the Rising, Raya. She could be the weapon that turns the tide in our favor.” He needed the tiellan. He needed her as much as he needed to become emperor.

  Raya’s lips pursed. “That seems a great risk.”

  “Risks must be taken on the path to victory,” Daval said. “It is a fact of war.”

  Raya nodded, but Daval could tell she was not convinced. No matter. It was good that she thought this way; Daval needed the check on himself, on his plans. “Thank you for your reports,” he said. “You are dismissed.”

  Daval turned his attention back to the Council. They had finished their argument over the woman architect, apparently, and had now moved on to the subject Daval had been waiting for. Daval felt Luce’s eyes turn to him, and the high priestess’s as well, as Mandiat brought up House Farady. Daval ignored the stares. Let them suspect what they might.

  “Tragedy has struck House Farady,” Mandiat said. “And I regret to say that it must be dissolved.”

  A few of the Council members gasped. Daval felt immensely satisfied. Urstadt’s plan had worked.

  “After an ill-advised affront to House Amok,” Mandiat said, glancing at Daval, “in which five Amok workers were killed, House Amok responded within their rights by imprisoning the suspected perpetrators, putting them on trial, and sentencing them to death. These actions were overseen by a judicator, and given warrant. In response to these judgments, House Farady took another imprudent route of action, and attempted to break out House Amok’s prisoners. This attempt resulted in the deaths of all Farady members involved.”

  Mandiat cleared his throat. Everyone in the room was staring at Daval. Daval made no indication that he noted or cared about the attention. He kept his face expressionless.

  “That same night,” Mandiat continued, “evidence suggests an attack was made on House Farady as well. All members of the house were killed.”

  “Oh, Goddess,” the high priestess whispered softly.

  This moment was the payoff—proof that Daval’s plan was working. It was why he, with Urstadt’s help, had orchestrated the affair. Word would spread and all of Roden would know that House Amok was not to be trifled with. That the head of House Amok was an ideal candidate for the imperial throne.

  “You don’t know who attacked House Farady?” Luce asked.

  “No sufficient evidence was left behind,” Kuglen said.

  “And by that you mean no witnesses?” Luce asked.

  “No witnesses,” Kuglen replied.

  “But surely you don’t mean all of House Farady,” the high priestess said. “There were children. Infants…”

  It had not been an easy decision to make. Daval took no joy in ordering the deaths of children. But when the fate of Roden was at stake, Daval was willing to make sacrifices.

  Mandiat cleared his throat once more, and slowly the Council turned its attention back to him. “We face now the business of dissolving House Farady’s assets,” Mandiat said, “and distributing them. In House Farady’s Last Bequest…”

  Daval stopped listening. He did not care where the Farady land and possessi
ons fell. He had accomplished what he had wanted to accomplish. And, in the doorway, he saw an imposing frame in armor, helm held under one arm, a wicked-looking glaive held in the other.

  Daval beckoned for his guard captain to approach. Urstadt walked into the room—surprisingly quietly, given her armor.

  “Report,” Daval said, keeping his voice low. Many eyes in the room still lingered on him.

  Urstadt leaned in close. “House Luce has been communicating with House Mandiat,” she said. “Rumors speak of another betrothal.”

  Daval’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Hirman Luce. That crafty bastard.

  “Luce is eager,” Daval said. The man had betrothed his daughter to Emperor Grysole months ago in a desperate grab at power. Luce wanted grandchildren on the throne. So Kirkan Mandiat, Grysole’s First Counselor, was the obvious next choice. Of course, being First Counselor said nothing about succession, but between that title and Andia Luce’s previous betrothal, it might be enough.

  “Send for my daughter when we return home,” Daval said. “If betrothal is the word of the season, we might as well throw our card onto the table.” Daval had always hated the game of betrothals, but he would play by his enemies’ rules, for now. Soon enough, he would force them to play by his.

  “Anything else?” Daval asked.

  “Nothing of concern,” Urstadt said.

  Daval nodded. “Very well. Wait for me outside, Urstadt. The meeting will end soon.”

  Daval turned back to the Council, but his mind was elsewhere. If Luce was already arranging marriages, he might have a serious chance at the throne. Daval would have to move quickly.

  8

  Harmoth estate, Tinska, western Khale

  KNOT AND ASTRID WERE taking an evening walk around the estate when they heard the commotion. Near the pond in the northeast corner of the grounds, a group of Jane’s followers had gathered and were having a heated conversation.

  Astrid growled. “Goddess, is it too much to ask that these people should have some autonomy? They can’t stop themselves from forming into crowds at the slightest provocation.”