Unless he missed his count, only eight of the original Eztezians remained, all with the knowledge Ancel required to master his Etchings. Eight where hundreds once lived. All that remained of those who knew the truth about the Chronicles, who had the power to make a difference in the wars to come. Locating them weren’t his greatest worry. From what he felt of them, they still kept to their old haunts, although several appeared to be heading north. If time allowed, Ancel would learn their exact locations, but time always had its own agenda. To complicate the situation even more, convincing them to unseal themselves and help Ancel would be near impossible.
That was still better than the alternative. If any of the Eztezians died or refused Ancel, only two other methods existed to obtain the necessary training. Both came with great risks. In one, the boy would need to find a way to breach the Kassite and cross realms into the Nether. All his research pointed to few outside the gods, the netherlings, and the primordial chaos of the beings inhabiting Mater itself, surviving such a trip. The task also involved shattering the weakened seals on the Nether. An option, but not a viable one, at least not one in which he was willing to participate. Precious little survived the last time the world faced the war such an act unleashed. He wanted no part in being a cause for such destruction as his ancestors had wrought. On his own, he’d sown enough chaos and suffering.
The second method might be even worse than the Nether. Ancel would need to pass between realms to Antonjur-the gods’ home of old. The mere thought of the place made him cringe.
Trying to clear his head, he took in the town of Eldanhill as the people went about their business oblivious to the impending changes in the world. Students as well as retired Ashishin strode down one side of Learner’s Row on their way to classes. Those aspiring to become Dagodin practiced under the watchful eyes of Weaponmasters. Novices and others further along in Materforging drilled in open practice areas. The rhythmic ring of steel on steel and the clack of wooden practice swords mingled with the boom and rumble of Forges and the synchronized shouts of unarmed combat. Multiple halls that contained one class or another, teaching everything from alchemy, apothecary, language arts, to mathematics, were filled to bursting.
The Mystera reminded him of the Iluminus but on a smaller scale. How many such schools existed? His chest swelled with the advancement his people had made. At the same time, his heart hurt over the misery he’d inflicted on them. He inhaled deeply. What’s done is done. Not even the gods can turn back time. A spicy aroma wafted to him, and his stomach growled.
“I just realized,” he said, glancing down to Ancel, “it’s been a long time since I ate.”
Ancel beamed, the expression making the stubble on his chin appear out of place. “Follow me.”
They continued down Learner’s Row before turning off onto one of the smaller streets and into a crowded open market. Criers and people haggling prices with vendors filled the plaza with the song of life. Sweaty bodies, perfumes, cooked foods, raw meats, and fruits created a melange of odors. After his lonely months’ long trek from southern Granadia to this far north, Ryne reveled in the sweet music of the populace. Even the stench from nearby drains was almost enjoyable. Most townsfolk cleared a way for his giant form, some gracing him with everything from curious glances to open-mouthed stares. He smiled.
“Ryne,” Ancel said, “how did you find me?”
“Through the link. When a person receives their first Etching, every Eztezian senses his pull. Some more than others. Whether we choose to answer is another story. For some of us, there’s no choice.”
“Why?”
“The bond is that strong. In the Chronicle of Time, one of the others wrote that denying the call is like resisting the water in the ocean. You can only hold out for so long before the current sweeps you under. The power you used when you summoned the netherling saved me.” Ryne shuddered as he thought about his encounter with Voliny. “Even if I didn’t want to come, the power drove me. I chased where it led, through snows and storms, letting nothing stand in my way, killing if I had to. I went weeks on end without eating. When I reached you in the woods, the call ceased.”
“I understand feeling the link, but Da said you already knew my name. How?”
“Let’s just say a voice told me.”
“The essences?” Ancel asked.
“Maybe.” Ryne shrugged. He still wasn’t certain about the voice, or rather, the sense deep inside his mind that pointed to Ancel and revealed his name. When the connection to the swath of Mater occurred in Castere, he immediately understood it originated from the young man. The urgency driving him afterwards may have been his own consciousness or it may have been Mater.
From the market, Ancel led them onto an even wider road lined with brick and sandstone buildings, their tiled roofs either peaking up or sloping down. The avenue lacked the crush of shoppers and traders, but travelers still crowded the thoroughfare, huddled in everything from thick furs, leathers, layered swaths of cloth, and cloaks. Those who didn’t walk rode horses. Covered wagons and animal-drawn coaches trundled along, wheels kicking up muddy water along a street too busy for the snow to accumulate. A few men kept a ten-mule team on course as they hauled a cart carrying large blocks of quarried stone. Among the crowds marched a few Dagodin, often on the heels of big-boned, bushy-faced men in lighter leathers or furs with daggerpaws or wolves at their sides. The pets eyed the people as an eagle might a rabbit.
While the majority of people were paler complexioned Granadians, Ryne noted what he’d picked up on in the market. Many here were of Ostanian descent. Thick-shoulders and sandy-hair were Harnan traits. Add a tad more color, square jaws, and blue eyes, and several of the taller folk would fit right in among the Felani. Sprinklings of red, flame, or jet-black hair marked those with Setian heritage. Bald heads with bushy beards and moustaches belonged to the Banai. None of them dressed like their distant relatives, but the resemblances existed nonetheless.
The wild men and soldiers in blue and gold held his attention. They bore subtle or sometimes stark differences in size, but the auras about them told him they were of the same lineage. A race he thought he’d all but eliminated as Nerian the Shadowbearer during the war that sealed Stefan Dorn’s rebellion against him. These men were all Erastonians, among some of the deadliest warriors next to the Setian Alzari.
The memory of Stefan made him feel at odds with himself again. Here he was, now the mentor of a young man whose father hated him above no other. A secret he needed to maintain if he hoped to complete his task. When Irmina arrived as she promised, he planned to plead with her not to reveal his identity.
“The voice that came to you,” Ancel said, breaking their silence, “could it be the gods themselves touching the world?” He nodded toward the Streamean temple and its soaring clock tower dominating the town’s center.
“Who knows?” Ryne stared off into the distance. “Personally, I’ve seen too much not to believe in divine interference.”
“Do you think they hear our prayers?”
Ryne shrugged. “I have my suspicions, but that’s all they are.”
“I think they do,” Ancel said.
“Why?” Ryne asked, genuinely interested. He wondered if this young man had arrived at the same conclusions in his short time of ascension as he had over years mired by the fog of lost memories.
Ancel glanced around furtively. “I get dizzy sometimes when I pray.” His is voice lowered. “Ever since this power began to manifest. I experimented, but I can’t pin down the reason. I’m convinced it isn’t random. I think somehow my prayers are … answered.”
Surprised, Ryne arched his eyebrow. He suspected the same, but more than that, Ancel’s inquisitiveness and hunger for learning reminded him of Kahkon. A brief pang of regret for his inability to save Kahkon swept through him. It had been much the same with his own children. Unlike with Kahkon though, he’d put his own to the sword. Some in their youth and others when they’d lived a full life. Each one had been driven mad by the power they inherited. No matter how hard he beeged the gods, it made no difference. He often felt being an Eztezian was more a curse than a gift. Stripping themselves of the ability to bring children into the world had been the best choice they’d made.