“Yes. She is or was. And it seems much of her power passed to her son.”
“Ancel?”
“The Tribunal members are not the only ones who sought the power we had. So did Amuni’s followers. They needed the Gift to continue in their search for a way to break or weaken the seals on the Nether. To allow their kind to breach the Kassite’s wards, cross over from Hydae and envelop our lands. With promises of power and returning Ostania to its former glory, they convinced Nerian to side with them. Others were corrupted by those promises and the first taste of power they received. Many from within your family.”
“No,” Irmina whispered. “No … No … No, that’s not true. My family, my parents were not of the shade.”
“Some were not,” Galiana said. “After the first few were revealed, starting with your ancestor Garrick Nagel, there was no stopping the retaliation. We possessed limited ways in which to tell who were shadelings and who were not. Word reached those opposing Nerian and much of your family perished. Others who were pure and refused the Shadowbearer, he had them executed. He blamed those killings on Stefan and his men because they rebelled. Indeed, Stefan did give the order to have your parents killed, but only after the shade’s influence turned them. They helped plot attacks on Ostanian towns. When we discovered they knew where in Granadia we’d fled to, we were forced to act.”
Galiana allowed silence to settle over the room then, giving Irmina a chance to ponder her words. She could imagine the woman’s life flitting before her eyes as she remembered all she’d been through. Whether she would recognize the truth was another story. For both their sakes, Galiana hoped she did. She would hate to have to kill Irmina.
Finally, Irmina said, “What’s High Shin Jerem’s part in all this.”
The question took Galiana by surprise, but she smiled all the same. Except for the trail from the earlier tears, Irmina’s face was now serene. She exhibited rare emotional control for so young a Matus.
“Well?”
“High Shin Jerem is one of us. He is Setian.”
“Why didn’t he tell me? I’m loyal to him. I’ve always been.” The hurt on Irmina’s face was plain.
Galiana shrugged. “Who knows?” She could only guess at the conflict warring with Irmina. “Jerem is as mysterious to me sometimes as he appears to you and just as confusing. I have not heard from him since he informed me you would be on your way here.”
Irmina’s brow furrowed. “Did he say why?”
“No. All he said was to prepare myself to receive you at some point.”
“That’s like him too. Hints of guidance without saying exactly what he wishes,” Irmina sighed. “What’s with the Dosteri and the mountain clans? No one mentioned them in all this confusion with Sendeth, Barson, and whomever else rising against the Tribunal.”
“Their presence is still a mystery to me,” Galiana admitted. “It was Stefan’s doing. He apparently owed a debt to the Dosteri.” Now wasn’t a good time to mention what the Chronicles said about them. “How or why he has not said. The mountain tribes needed little excuse to attack the Sendethi army. One of its Knight Captains decided to make demands in the name of the king.”
“Did they allow him to keep his head?”
“They were too embroiled in one of their feuds at the time to turn their attentions on him. However, when they found shadelings within the Greenleaf Woods, they were more than willing to help. Soon after came the battle for Eldanhill. The man in command of the shade also controlled the Sendethi, but that is not the worst of it.” Galiana took a deep breath. “As strong as Thania was, he defeated her. He took her and Materialized. We have no idea where they went.”
“Yes, I heard. How’s Stefan and Ancel taking it?”
“Not well. Stefan is bad enough. Ancel is worse. He already was not handling your departure well. In some ways, this crisis saved him from the pain you two had. It was either get over you or die. You see, the shade was also hunting Ancel.”
Irmina clasped her hands on her lap. “Hunting him? Why?”
“For his mother’s power, but that is not all,” Galiana added. “He is so strong a netherling breached the Kassite and crossed over to our world. It imbued something into Ancel. Strange tattoos covering one arm and part of his chest.”
“Ryne!” Irmina exclaimed.
Galiana opened her mouth then snapped it shut.
Chapter 13
Across the area now free of snow and slush, Ancel tapped his foot impatiently. He’d wanted to use one of the other training spaces, but the bushy-faced giant opposite him insisted on clearing his own, stating he needed the work to warm his body. How did someone warm themselves in tight leathers with their arms exposed? In this weather?
Almost every Weaponmaster and student had stopped their sessions to crowd around the training area. Most hunkered down within thick furs and cloaks, their hushed murmurs spreading through the gathering, quiet anticipation hanging in the air. Ancel wished Galiana or his father was present, but another matter had their attention. Some Ashishin had showed up the previous night, and the council gathered in discussions with her.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Ryne called out.
The spectators quieted.
Wooden longsword held before him, Ancel began to circle Ryne with smooth, sure strides. Battle energy ran through him in warm tingles as he moved. One foot stepped next to the other but never overlapped. Underneath his thick leather armor, the life-like sculpted pendant of his mother rested flat against his chest. He wished she could be here also. Ancel took a breath, trying to push away both the thought and the accompanying emotional surge. He sought the Eye, embracing its calmness.
“Ah, so you know how to find the Shunyata. Good.” Unconcernedly, Ryne flipped a wooden replica of a greatsword from hand to hand, the weapon more like a twig in his grasp.
Ancel’s heart skipped a beat at the name. Kachien used the same word to describe a similar skill among her people. Hands steady as he circled, he fixed his gaze over his weapon’s tip and upon his opponent, hoping to imitate Ryne’s calm disposition.
Two more steps to the right, and Ancel changed direction. Muddy earth squelched beneath his feet. He braced himself, focusing on Ryne’s chest in a fruitless effort to ignore the artwork on the man’s thick, oak-branch arms. Without warning, those Etchings shifted. Ancel gave in to his battle energy and darted in, attacking with a three-strike move.
As he parried the first two blows, Ryne’s eyes widened. The contact vibrated through Ancel’s hands as Ryne dropped backward, his body arched a foot or two above the ground, but neither sword nor hand touching the soggy, rust-colored dirt. The maneuver seemed impossible for a man so large.
The third blow, aimed for Ryne’s torso, whiffed through empty air. Ryne sprung up as the slice passed by, propelling his body over Ancel in a graceful flip.
Off balance, Ancel attempted to pivot, but his knee twisted under him. He stumbled forward. Before he fell, he jarred to a stop.
Ryne’s iron fingers dug into his bare shoulder and held him upright. The greatsword tapped Ancel’s neck.
Gasps and a smattering of claps burst from the throng.
“I saw your move,” Ancel said, breathing hard but still beaming with pride as Ryne released him.
Ryne shook his head and wagged a finger thicker than two of Ancel’s. “Seeing the move isn’t enough. Find a way to counter.”
Ancel nodded.
They assumed identical positions and began anew. This time Ancel attacked swiftly, alternating blows from every position, going through the basics to the more advanced Styles his father had taught him over the past months. Not once did he pierce Ryne’s guard or come close to touching him. Each time the fight ended with a gentle tap of Ryne’s sword. Sweating profusely despite the cold, chest, legs, and arms burning, Ancel almost went down on one knee. Ryne called for a halt.