“This is no time to play the game of knowledge.” Bass filled Halvor’s notes.
Taken aback by the grim response and tone, Ryne frowned. The few times the Svenzar became this serious, the repercussions touched the world’s farthest reaches, and in ways not even the true Chroniclers, the ones who claimed to see the Planes of Existence, could predict.
“You mean my brothers.” Ryne allowed his mind to touch the pinpoints, the bonds that told him of their locations. The four wayward ones from earlier, the same he’d felt the day he woke in Galiana’s hospice still headed for the Great Divide. “Unfortunately, I cannot be two places at once.”
“This is true, but it does not change the need. You must go to them.”
The Svenzar were hardly ever direct. They enjoyed their puzzles, their riddles, even if they claimed they did not play and tried to appear serious despite the perpetual smile ingrained into their features. Seeing Halvor like this, coupled with his grim expression, made the hairs on Ryne’s arm stand on end. Whatever was happening, he hoped it was not as bad as Halvor was suggesting.
“Prima Materium has massed near the Great Divide since my ward released it, and they’re drawn to its call,” Ryne sai. “That’s to be expected. I suspect there’s an army of shade, Amuni’s Children, and possibly one Skadwaz waiting, but I doubt even they could stop four Eztezians working together.” Ryne opened his mouth to continue then snapped it shut. He let his words out slowly. “Which one of the four is a traitor?”
“Not one. Two. The Guardians for air and water.”
“The Flows,” Ryne whispered.
“And the other two?”
“Cold and metal.”
There it was. One of the Svenzar’s own had gone to defend.
“There is more,” Halvor said. “The one you fought beyond the Vallum, near Edsel Stonewilled’s people. He is there.”
“Voliny’s dead.” Ryne refused to call the man by his other name for fear of the memories it would dredge up.
“That was not Voliny.”
“What?”
“In your haste to save the boy and to forget, you have allowed some things to slip by you. Among the second generation of Eztezians, there was none stronger than you. Even most of the first paled in comparison. While under the shade’s control, you were no less an Eztezian. If you think it was Voliny, how is it that he bested you that night? Yet, when you fought him in Castere, you defeated him rather easily.”
Ryne left the obvious answer unspoken. “Who was it then?”
“Voliny’s master, a boy you knew as Kahkon.”
Memories of Carnas tore through Ryne. They scoured him, threatened to wash him away. All in scarlet, bone, and bristle. The black of soot. The gray of ash. The unrecognizable mess left after a daemon ripped out a person’s sela for deliverance into the Nether. He relived the mounds of dead. Men, women, children. Every face belonged to a friend. Kahkon danced atop their corpses.
Kahkon, the boy he’d taught. The boy who he felt could have been his son. The boy who was ever inquisitive, having him tell stories of the gods, read him myths and legends. The boy the shade took. The boy he had failed to save.
So many deceptions. This one greater than most.
“He used my teaching to see if I would remember my past,” Ryne said, his voice sounding hoarse and far away.
“Indeed,” Halvor rumbled. “Now he waits for the rest of you. Two of them are his already. Either the other two will fall or they will be his. That cannot be allowed. If he succeeds, he will capture the Sanctums of Shelter.”
Ryne’s mind snapped from the red haze of old grief and new rage. The Sanctums of Shelter held the power of the Vallum and fueled the Great Divide. They were a balancing act between neutrality, order, and chaos. Tip the scales one way or the other and it would break the first Principle of Mater. The elements of Mater must exist in harmony.
Nothing he, Galiana, or any of the others had planned could save what was left then.
“I must go to them now,” Ryne declared, desperation a storm in his chest.
“If you do, you will lose your ward.”
The effect would be the same. A sense of helplessness suffused Ryne. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes in prayer. He prayed harder, in earnest. No one answered what choice he should make.
“It is why I am here,” Halvor said. “It is Humelen’s will. We will see you to Torandil, and then to Seti through the Travelshafts. It will grant you enough time to see your ward safe and meet the others at the Great Divide.”
The despair in Ryne lifted a little, just enough for him to offer Halvor a weak smile and a nod of gratitude.
Chapter 45
Although his Pathfinder escort marched near him, Ancel couldn’t help touching his sword’s hilt. He swore the gigantic stone creatures intended to eat him. The books mentioned the Svenzar and Sven being large, but for some reason he had not equated their size to match what he saw. Halvor and Kendin, their leaders, stood half as tall as the canyon they walked through, shoulders almost touching the icy crags rising on both sides. A thick odor of fresh earth accompanied the creatures. The Sven kept to the front, but that mattered little as their musical speech echoed above the footsteps and clink of armor carried not only by the space but also by the occasional chilly breeze. It was as if a band accompanied them, notes rising and falling, a rhythmic chime unlike the murmur of Harval’s Matii who followed behind in organized ranks.
Striding next to him, Mirza gawked so much that he tripped more than once. Charra acted as if the creatures did not exist. What Ancel found almost as fascinating was Ryne’s ability to speak their language. Etchings glistening in the sunlight, Ryne walked next to Halvor, both engaged in conversation.
Ancel was still staring at the Svenzar as they rounded a corner. All thought of them fled his mind.
In liquid, translucent silver, the zyphyl loomed before him. Beyond it yawned the Travelshaft’s blackness.
“Remember,” Galiana said from next to him, “it is of the Streams, as are you. Bottle your fear. Give it nothing to feed on when you enter or else you may not return from its grasp. It will tempt you. You will see visions of things that may have happened or those to come; the possibilities created by choice. You must ignore it all. Set your mind on coming through. Take a moment to clear your heads and set your thoughts on reaching the other side. Nothing it shows you is real.”
“Whatever you do, whatever you see,” Ryne said, “do not Forge. The zyphyl are the opposite of the vasumbrals. Instead of devouring Mater, they can multiply what you do a hundred fold. That is never good when inside. Everland still suffers from what an Eztezian unleashed within a zyphyl.”
Ancel swallowed.
“So go in and don’t think,” Mirza said. “Not as easy as it sounds.”
“Regardless,” Galiana indicated the Travelshaft with a dip of her head, “this is the only way to avoid whatever traps the Tribunal has in store.”
Galiana hadn’t been pleased when Ryne mentioned they would be skipping Calisto, but somehow their discussion resulted in her acquiescence. Whatever caused her to change her plans, Ancel figured it had to be important. He wondered what else they were hiding from him.
“I’ve faced shadelings, seen a netherling, trained with an Eztezian, have a god’s Battleguard as my own construct, Pathfinder’s as my personal guard, and I, myself, am an Eztezian.” Ancel shrugged. “What’s there for me to be afraid of?”
“Oh, nothing but gods and godlings,” Mirza paused, tapping a finger on his lip, and then pointed as if remembering something, “and monsters looking to eat our world. That’s all.” He threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Enough,” Galiana said. “Just remember our instructions.”
Both he and Mirza nodded, but Ancel still could not help the little flutters in his gut. “What’s that?” He pointed to a charcoal surface wide enough to hold three wagons that led down to the shaft’s entrance. Not a hint of snow or ice gathered on it.