CHAPTER 68

Michel couldn’t remember the last time he really, truly cried. He’d cried in pain before, certainly. He’d wept over the deaths of his friends. But the sobs that wracked his body came out in horrid, anguished yowls, tearing his throat raw. He clutched at Ichtracia, trying to regain control of himself, only half aware of the chaos around him.

Dragonmen and Privileged ran out of the keep. The doors were closed and barred. Blasts shook the ground beneath them and plaster fell from the keep walls. Hundreds of people shouted in Dynize.

Michel could not have said how long it had been since Sedial stepped through the portal, but there came a moment when he realized that he was no longer controlled. He held Ichtracia to his chest. He’d shifted onto his knees. The realization of sudden freedom broke through to him like a lightning strike and he wrestled down the sobs and wiped a grimy sleeve across his eyes. He lowered Ichtracia back to the ground, tearing away her vest, pressing his palm to her chest wound to try to stem the flow of blood.

He’d missed her heart.

Blood bubbled up through his fingers. He pressed harder, and Ichtracia suddenly gurgled. Her eyes opened wide, the whites turned red from the mala used to drug her. A single bubble of blood appeared on her lips. It popped. Another formed, and he realized she was trying to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His palm slipped off the wound. He tried to put it back, barely able to see through the hazy mist in his eyes.

To his shock, Ichtracia shifted in his arms. It was slow, gradual, and he might not have felt it if he didn’t see her hand suddenly fall out of her pocket. She was wearing one of her hidden gloves, still attached to her vest by several strings. The glove was black with blood. She tugged weakly, trying to free the glove, then seemed to give up. Her body sagged. Michel tore the strings and clutched at her hand, pressing the gloved fingers against her own wound. “Come on! You can stop the bleeding!”

Michel felt a firm hand suddenly grasp him by the shoulder. He was torn away from Ichtracia and turned toward a dragonman, who, staring down at Michel, seemed about to toss him aside. Michel tried to struggle, looking back toward Ichtracia. The other hand fell from her pocket, wearing a glove.

The tips of Ichtracia’s fingers twitched.

A roar filled Michel’s ears. Heat pricked at his face like the embers of a fire, and he suddenly found himself unhanded. He wrapped his arms around himself to try to stop his trembling as he was buffeted by unseen forces.

Within moments, nothing remained of Sedial’s guards. Soldiers, dragonmen, Privileged. At least two dozen people had been turned to ash in an instant. He let out a gasp and dropped back to his knees beside Ichtracia. He patted her cheek, then checked her pulse. He could feel nothing.

No conscious thought propelled him forward. With a surge of strength, Michel scooped his arms beneath Ichtracia and lifted her to his chest. Slowly, one leg at a time, he got his feet beneath him. He hesitated, only for a moment, staring at the unknown glow of oblivion. In two strides, he stepped through the portal and into the godstone.

Michel stepped into a deafening silence. He was in a room of gray brick whose dimensions seemed to shift between blinks—the ceiling high, then low; the walls near, then far. Three glowing doors hovered in the air at a constant distance from one another, providing something for Michel’s mind to grasp onto. Equidistant between them was a spot of the blackest black Michel had ever seen. It tugged at his eye, at once revolting and pleasing, hanging suspended above the ground. It couldn’t have been much bigger than an apple.

Michel took a step forward, trying to think through his disorientation. There was something wrong with this place—something that pressed on the edges of his mind and flickered across his vision, yet he could not place it. It took him several moments to realize that no color existed here, that he could only see black, white, and gray. But that wasn’t what was driving him mad.

He took another step, trying to remember his purpose. Beneath his feet, the brick felt spongy and loose. He smiled at the sensation, bouncing himself up and down on the balls of his feet. He looked down at Ichtracia’s blood-soaked body. It seemed to weigh nothing. He couldn’t recall why he had brought her here, or why he cared.

It took several more moments before he realized that they were not alone. Two figures stood on either side of the blackest black. They faced each other, their bodies frozen, their eyes locked. Michel could hear words, slow and muted, as if through a thick wall. He strained to hear them and in the effort of that focus saw their lips moving.

“You can’t waste it,” Ka-Sedial said.

A faint flicker of surprise registered in the back of Michel’s head as Ka-poel answered him aloud, “And yet I won’t let you take it.”

“You have no choice. It cannot be wasted,” Sedial replied. “We are here. The power must be seized. Neither of us can imagine the consequences of leaving without it.” His frozen body seemed to lean forward ever so slightly. “You don’t have to oppose me, child. This rite of power is older than Kresimir. Blood is meant to be spilled. It is meant to be used. We can share it.” He moved closer to the blackest black.

A bead of sweat rolled down Ka-poel’s brow and dripped from her chin. “I don’t need more power. I have no use for it.”

“Everyone has a use for power.” Sedial moved backward a fraction of an inch. “You and I. We split it between us, as Kresimir split the power with his siblings. We can do great things.” He trembled slightly, moving back even more.

Ka-poel’s eyes suddenly flicked toward Michel. In the flash of an instant his warping reality seemed to stabilize, and he remembered the reason for the tears on his cheeks. “You can’t be here!” Ka-poel told him. “It will kill you!”

“Your sister,” Michel gasped. “She…” He couldn’t finish, lifting Ichtracia’s body with all his might, offering it toward Ka-poel. There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Ka-Sedial suddenly surged forward, his frozen body stopping within inches of the blackest black. A snarl crept onto his lips, determination straining in his eyes. Something seemed to peel off the tips of Ka-poel’s fingers—a shadow, floating, back and forth like a feather, toward Michel. It landed softly on Ichtracia’s brow.

“It’s all I can spare,” Ka-poel said, her voice trembling. “You have to go. You will die.”

“I’ll die with her, then,” Michel said. He could feel his mind slipping again, that momentary control beginning to wane.

“Let him die,” Sedial rasped. “Let them all die. Break free of your worldly cares. You can be a god, Ka-poel!” The old man’s fingers reached slowly toward the blackest black, as if moving through molasses.

Michel’s reality began to unravel. Ichtracia slipped from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes locked on the blackest black. He wanted to walk toward it, but found that he could not. Something seemed to touch his collar. Ichtracia lay in a pool of blood at his feet. She began to recede farther from him, and he reached out to grasp her, but didn’t have the strength to do it. Something—someone—was pulling him backward. He craned in confusion.

Lady Flint stood just inside the door through which Michel had entered. She didn’t seem bothered by the room, her jaw set and her eyes steady. “You heard the woman,” she told him. “Out.”

Michel felt himself flung toward the portal and watched helplessly as the room with the blackest black disappeared. He stumbled onto the bloodstained altar in the fortress near Landfall. The room was filled with Adran soldiers, most of them badly wounded. Olem stood between a pair of Privileged as one of them treated a gash in his forehead. Understanding returned, and Michel threw himself back toward the portal, only to slam against rock. He pawed at the warm stone and let out a howl of grief.

The portal was gone.

Vlora tossed the spy back into the real world and turned to face the two figures squared off over the blackest black. She walked toward them, finding that the closer she drew, the harder it was to proceed. Halting her advance, she walked around to one side where she could see both faces. Though they looked frozen, like fish on ice, her sorcerous senses screamed, alerting her to the unseen conflict raging between them. Her nostrils burned from powder, her body weak from all those injuries at the Crease.

“You came,” Ka-poel suddenly said.

“Chasing him.” Vlora nodded. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” She tried to take a step forward. It felt like stepping into a tub full of honey. “Lost half my army and a bunch of good friends to do it, but I’m here. Wherever here is. The Else?”

“Yes.”

Vlora looked around at the strange brick room. There was no source for the light that illuminated them, though the world was swirling with pastels of sorcery. The colors coalesced around Ka-poel and her grandfather until they seemed to become that blackest black. Vlora pointed at it in question.

“The souls of a million damned,” Ka-poel told her. “Or the sorcerous essence of their blood. Whatever you want to call it—the heart of the godstones. How man becomes god.”

“Did Kresimir build this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why isn’t he talking?” Vlora gestured at Ka-Sedial.

“Because he’s not letting himself be distracted.” Ka-poel fell silent, the frozen expression on her face slowly becoming a scowl. Both she and her grandfather were sweating profusely. Sedial was closer to the blackest black, his fingertips drifting toward it.

Vlora watched them struggle for a few more moments and stepped back, drew her pistol, and fired.

“Wait!” Ka-poel’s warning came too slow. The shot echoed through the room. Vlora could see the bullet race toward Ka-Sedial’s head. But as it grew closer, it too slowed, and the bullet came to a stop not an inch from his temple. Ka-poel gave an angry grunt. “Attacking him won’t do any good. We can manipulate this place to a point. That’s why you can’t come closer.”

Vlora glared at the offending bullet and drew her sword. “You’re certain about that?”

Ka-poel didn’t answer, but Vlora saw Sedial’s eyes flicker toward her as she began to wade through the honey-like air, her blade extended. She thought she heard a distant rumble, disturbing the silence of the room.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Sedial suddenly spoke up.

“Neither should you,” Vlora retorted. She took a hit of powder—too much, more than she should dare in her fragile state—and pushed forward.

“This is my birthright!” Sedial snapped. “This is my power to take. You have no place here, powder mage. You can look into the Else, but you cannot enter.”

Vlora felt herself buffeted by… something. Ka-poel moved slightly toward the blackest black, Sedial twitched away from it. Vlora continued to push her weakened body, summoning from the well deep within her—all her anger, her frustration, her determination. She extended her arm, plunging her sword toward Sedial’s throat, like trying to push the blade through the center of a tree. The metal began to bend, and Sedial’s fingers regained their lost ground in his reach for the blackest black.

“Nobody wants you as their god,” Vlora hissed.

“No one gets to choose their god,” Sedial said. He suddenly lurched to one side, shaking his head in confusion. His fingers slipped past the blackest black, and the bullet suspended in air continued along its path, whizzing past his ear and smacking into the far wall in a puff of plaster. Vlora’s own body was released, the force of her own momentum carrying her past Sedial. Ka-poel let out a gasp, stumbled, and would have fallen if not caught by an arm. The woman—the corpse—that Michel left on the floor clutched at Ka-poel, holding her up, and waved a blood-soaked gloved hand at Sedial.

“Ichtracia! You must not manipulate the elements in this place!” Sedial barked.

Ichtracia raised both her hands. That distant rumble occurred once more, and the Privileged laughed. “That wasn’t me, Grandfather.”

“It’s the damned powder mage! This place was not built for her kind!” Sedial spun toward Vlora as she picked herself up off the floor. He extended one hand toward her, and she felt herself propelled toward one of the glowing portals. “Help me get her out, and we can share this power! Ichtracia… my Mara. Give me your strength.”

The Privileged stared back at Sedial for a few moments. “No,” she said softly.

The rumbling grew louder. A crack formed along one wall, spidering out into many. Sedial looked around desperately, panic in his eyes. “Damn you. It’ll kill us all!” There was a flicker at the edges of Vlora’s awareness, a shadow cast across the far wall in the shape of a tall, fat man with a ladle in one hand and an apron around his belly.

“Adom?” Vlora asked in the stillness of the moment.

The figure winked and was gone. The rumblings stopped, and the thick air released Vlora, allowing her to move again.

Sedial leapt for the blackest of black. Ka-poel was quicker. One hand darted forward, plunging into the sorcerous maelstrom. All around them, the Else began to crumble.

Michel sat on the edge of the altar, soaked in the blood of Ichtracia and who knew how many other sacrifices, cradling his ruined hand. Adran soldiers rushed around him, officers barking orders, messengers giving reports, while the distant sound of musket fire was occasionally punctuated by the roar of cannons. From what Michel had gathered just listening to the chatter around him, they’d captured the fortress at great cost. The Dynize still outnumbered them, menacing from every direction.

Olem strode through the middle of it all, a pillar of calm in the chaos, listening to a string of bad news without so much as a blink.

“Sir, confirmation from the Ninth. General Sabastenien has succumbed to his wounds!”

“Send a field promotion to his second-in-command,” Olem responded.

“The Third is buckling on our western flank, they’re requesting reinforcements.”

“Give them two companies from the Seventh and have them pull back three hundred yards.”

“Sir, word from Privileged Nila. She’s taken care of that regiment of cavalry trying to cut us off from the north, but she’s burned out bad.”

“Tell her to retreat, and make sure Magus Borbador knows not to take any offensives. We need him to neutralize any Privileged they have left.”

“Sir, report from Captain Norrine. Captain Buden is down. Another one of those damned dragonmen.”

“Is he still alive?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Send a medic and a stretcher. Get him out of there. How’s Davd?”

A medic appeared through the doors of the keep, hands covered in blood, and answered the question with the shake of his head.

Olem swore. “Listen up, everyone! We’re down to one powder mage and one Privileged. Our field guns are knackered and the Dynize seem pretty pissed off that we’ve captured their damned obelisk. I’m not sure if we can hold this position, but we’re damn well going to try. The good news is our fleet has arrived and shelled the living piss out of everything the Dynize had holding the harbor, which gives us a corridor of retreat and relief. I want all wounded evacuated in that direction. Get to it!”

The orders were followed within moments, wounded being loaded into stretchers while reinforcements took to the fortress walls with their rifles. Michel watched it all with a dense numbness, wondering if he should follow them toward Landfall. Even getting down from the altar seemed like an impossible task. Maybe it was fitting that he should stay here and die when the Dynize recaptured the fort.

“Michel!”

He jumped, realizing that Olem stood directly in front of him. “Huh? Sir?”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, soldier. You should get out of here.”

Michel shook his head and pulled his mangled hand closer to his chest. “I’m not leaving without Ichtracia.”

“That’s a bold thing to say, but you’re only going to get in the way.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Pit. Well, I’m giving Vlora five more minutes and then requesting volunteers to hold the keep and sending everyone else to fight their way toward the coast. If you want to die with those of us that stay, you’re more than welcome to do so.” Olem abruptly turned and shouted at a messenger, striding away to a flurry of reports.

Michel lifted his eyes to the godstone, willing that portal to reappear. Only blank stone stared back at him. He felt himself tilting, his head foggy. The practical spy within him formulated a plan to retreat with the Adrans, make use of their medics, then get himself to a hideaway within the catacombs where he could recover through whatever was to follow this battle. He squeezed his eyes shut and scooted off the edge of the altar, gaining his feet. There was no point in remaining. He’d done all he could do.

A popping sound, like a rifle going off behind his ear, made him jump. He spun back toward the godstone only to see that a great crack had formed, running lengthwise all the way up and down the monument. The whole thing shifted, and half of it looked like it was about to fall but, at the last moment, settled in on its own weight. Michel was so transfixed by the break that he almost missed the two figures who’d appeared on the altar.

Vlora and Ichtracia leaned against each other, their clothes steaming. Michel felt himself brushed aside as Olem rushed to the altar and helped Vlora down. The two leapt into a conference, and within moments Vlora was ordering a fighting retreat from the godstone. The Adrans began to pick up their things, ready to leave now that their general had returned.

Michel wanted to rush to Ichtracia, but it was all he could do to stay standing as she came to join him. She was covered in blood, still wearing her gloves, her vest hanging loose to reveal that the great wound he’d given her under Sedial’s influence was healed without a scar. He could tell from the slump of her shoulders that she was in pain, and her eyes still held the redness of a deep mala binge.

“You look as bad as I feel,” she said.

“That good?” Michel swayed, seeing darkness at the corners of his vision. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Michel?”

Her voice sounded distant. Michel’s head felt heavy, and he abruptly dropped to his knees, casting about for a soft spot to sit. “I’m just going to lie down for a while,” he told her. “Sorry I stabbed you.”