Duskfall (55 page)

“Why keep me here?” Astrid asked.

“The Black Matron instructed us on how to cleanse you,” the priestess said. “We will let you go, you mustn’t worry. Your suffering will not be eternal. Your pain will not last.”

Astrid forced herself to breathe calmly. “You’re going to let me go?”

The priestess would not stop smiling. “Of course, child. The Black Matron orders you to continue in the company of this Knot fellow. Great things are happening. Great things that will change the Sfaera, and they’re beginning here, in Roden. As soon as we let you go, you must find Knot and his companions in the imperial palace.”

Astrid’s mind raced. She liked Knot. She liked Winter. She had hoped to escape the Denomination, the Black Matron’s influence, hoped that all three of them could live normal lives. She hadn’t wanted to betray them.

She saw how wrong she had been.

They were going to let her go. But this priestess seemed to have more in store for her first.

The priestess reached below the table, standing up with a bucket in her hands.

“The Black Matron insists you contact her more often. The last she heard from you was in the wilderness, along the River Arden. And before that, Brynne. If she didn’t know better, she would think you were trying to escape your duty.”

The priestess dipped her hand in the bucket. It emerged dripping with water. She flicked her hand at Astrid.

Astrid closed her eyes instinctively, flinching as the droplets hit her. Why flick her with water? What did the woman expect—

Suddenly Astrid’s face
burned
. She whimpered, shaking her head.

“What is that?” Astrid asked, through clenched teeth.

“That, child, is water. Water that has had nightsbane soaking in it for the last few hours, to be specific.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” the priestess said. Astrid strained, but couldn’t see who it was. “The water is perfect,” the priestess said. “I’ll need another dozen buckets or so. Fetch them immediately.”

The door closed, and the priestess looked back at Astrid.

“Have you ever wondered why you breathe, child?” The priestess smiled and reached below the table. Astrid heard a cranking sound, and the table started to shift. She had been lying flat, but now she was moving to an angle, her feet rising in the air as her head dipped lower.

“Considering you’re immortal, one would think it wouldn’t be necessary. But, for some reason, you do it anyway. We’ve studied your kind extensively to understand why you breathe, why the sun ignites your skin, why your eyes glow, but no physical explanation exists that we can find.

“Most of us have simply decided that it is part of your curse. You must live through everything we live through, and live through everything that would kill us, as well.”

Astrid was paralyzed with fear.

“We both have parts to play, my dear.” The priestess unrolled a thick cloth, dipping it in the bucket. “Mine involves cleansing you. You need to know that, wherever you are, we will find you. You are bound to us. We are your only hope.”

The priestess placed the wet cloth over Astrid’s face, smothering her in fire. The pain cut so deeply she could hardly breathe.

And then came the water.

W
INTER WONDERED WHETHER SHE
was dead.

She had a fierce headache, worse than any
faltira
hangover. She was someplace dark. And damp. And cold. She lay on a stone floor that sucked the heat from her body, but she was too sore to move. Even lifting her head was painful.

Is this Oblivion?
Many people thought of Oblivion as a place of burning and torture, but the descriptions that had always frightened Winter the most were of impenetrable darkness and lasting pain, the coldness of both body and mind.

Complete and utter isolation.

She could remember fighting in the square. She remembered a man with a mace. Beyond that, everything was blurry. Nash had been there, and Elsi. No, not Elsi. Kali. Winter was sure of it.

She attempted a few croaks of sound. She called out to Knot, Lian, and Astrid—even to Cinzia and Jane, but there was no response. She was alone. How long had she been here? Surely not more than a day. She remembered someone trying to give her water, but she had choked violently. Now her throat was parched. She called out again, her voice echoing eerily in the blackness. She planted her hands on the ground, pushing herself up with great effort. Her arms burned and her muscles strained, and despite the darkness, her mind spun dizzyingly fast. She collapsed back, spasming with pain.

So much for sitting, let alone standing.

She heard a clanking, the first sound she had heard in ages, it seemed.

“Hello?”

A shaft of light blinded her. Winter shut her eyes, but the light burned through her eyelids.

“She’s awake,” a deep voice declared. Winter wasn’t sure whether the echo was in her own mind or the dungeon. For that was clearly where she was.

“So she is,” another voice responded. “The princess rises from her beauty sleep.” A chuckle, dry and gravelly.

Princess
. The word echoed in Winter’s mind.

“That’s enough,” the first voice said. “We’ve got orders.”

Winter squinted, eyes slowly adjusting. Two men stood above her, clad in mail and long, pointed helmets.

“She’s a lucky one,” one of them said. Winter recognized the high, reedy voice as the second who had spoken. “Meeting the emperor and the Tokal-Ceno in one day. A blessed one, even.”

“I said that’s enough,” the first man said. “Or didn’t you hear me the first time?”

“I heard you, I heard you,” the second man mumbled.

Rough hands gripped Winter beneath her arms, hauling her to her feet. It took her a moment, but she finally managed a shuffling gait, with both guards supporting most of her weight. She thought about praying, until she remembered the goddess she would pray to. The one who had abandoned her long ago. What would she say, anyway?

Bless my friends, that they can live through this, that they will be better off than me.

But if not, bless them with a quick death. Receive them quickly into your embrace.

T
HE GUARDS PUSHED
K
NOT
into the throne hall of the imperial palace, but Knot could only think of the dream he’d had in the dungeon. It had been a new dream. He had not killed anyone. He had not fought at all.

Knot had been a grain farmer, with a small plot of land and a family. Knot remembered kissing his wife in the morning, a plump woman who laughed warmly, and his two children, a boy and a girl. Both younger than ten summers. The boy woke early with Knot to milk their cow, and they had walked together in the dawn, and he had put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Knot stumbled and fell on his face, landing hard on the cool marble floor. There was a chorus of laughter from the Reapers around him. Hands grabbed him roughly, pulling him back to his feet. Knot looked around the spacious hall. His eyes focused on one person.

Winter lay prostrate on the ground before a large throne. Lian was beside her. They both looked bruised and filthy. Dried blood trailed from their ears and noses.

At least they’d survived.

Astrid’s screams as she writhed in the snow still echoed in Knot’s skull. The sword, laced with nightsbane, must have killed the girl. Even if it hadn’t, the Reapers would have and figured out what she was. They would not have let her live.

Knot found his grief for the vampire hard to understand. But it would do him no good to dwell on it.

Winter and Lian turned their heads, and Knot’s eyes met Winter’s, but before he could acknowledge her a Reaper standing hit her sharply with the butt of his spear, forcing her face to the ground again.

“Madzin Moraine. I never thought I would see you again. Not after what we did to you.”

Knot lifted his gaze to the throne, a large sky-blue lacquered seat on a platform of golden stairs. Sitting in it was Emperor Grysole.

He was tall, taller than Knot. The man’s head and cheeks were smooth and freshly shaven. He wore simple white trousers, a white undercoat, and a tight-fitting sky-blue overcoat that wrapped around his body. He wore no crown or jewelry other than a large gold ring on the little finger of his left hand.

Glancing up, Knot took in the expanse of the chamber. The throne hall was circular, with white-and-blue marbled floors, and massive pillars—as big around as Knot was tall—lined the circumference. Above Knot loomed the largest dome he’d ever seen. An elaborate mural covered the curved expanse, depicting the Age of Marvels, showing epic battles and mystical creatures. Large stained-glass windows let in starlight.

“Not Madzin,” Knot rasped, glaring at the emperor. Whoever Knot really was, this man could tell him. But that didn’t matter if they couldn’t get out of here alive. Knot took stock of his surroundings. Two Reapers guarded the door through which he had entered, and two more stood at the base of the throne platform. The three Reapers who had brought Knot stood guard over him, and two more stood by Winter and Lian. A servant of some kind stood near a smaller door to the left of the throne. Eleven enemies. Knot wasn’t bound, but he feared eleven would be too many. And, even if he caught them by surprise, surely one would escape to warn others.

Where’s that damn vampire when I need her?
The thought only brought sadness.

The emperor smiled, his thin lips curling upwards. “I should have guessed. Who are you, then? Darcen? Elenar? Hoc? Someone else entirely? Have you reverted all the way back to Lathe?”

Knot frowned. “Lathe” was familiar to him, as was “Madzin”. The other names meant nothing.

A conglomeration of souls crammed together.
That was what the Tokal had said.
A creation of science and magic.

“My name is Knot,” he said.

The emperor’s eyebrows rose. “Knot? A
new
name? Unexpected, albeit lacking in creativity.”

Behind Knot, the doors to the throne hall burst open, angry shouts sounding outside. Knot turned.

At the head of the group walked the Tokal, his long blond hair waving. Behind him strode a dozen Ceno monks, green cowls over their heads, hands hidden in wide sleeves.

Add thirteen more
, Knot thought to himself. His odds were plummeting. As the Ceno entered, Knot felt a heavy weight upon him. The feeling was too tangible, too real to be despair. It was as if a veil had been placed over him, blocking him. From what, he did not know.

“Ah, Tokal-Ceno,” the emperor said, “welcome to our little hearing. Glad you could make it.”

The man scowled at the emperor. “Had I actually been informed of it, Your Grace, I’m sure we would have been here much earlier.”

“You’re here now,” the emperor said, waving his hand, “and that’s what matters. Count the marbles in the bag, not the ones on the floor.” He nodded towards Knot. “You remember our good friend Madzin? Or Knot, as he prefers now.”

The Tokal looked at Knot and smiled. “Of course. We saw one another quite recently.”

“Knot wasn’t a sift we gave him, Tokal. Why does he call himself that?”

The Tokal raised an eyebrow, and turned back to the emperor. “I honestly don’t know, Your Grace. I was hoping to find out, assuming you’re planning on releasing him back into my custody?”

“What’s a sift?” Knot grunted.

The emperor and the Tokal both looked at him, surprise etched on their faces.

“You’ve forgotten psimantic terminology?” the Tokal asked.

Knot narrowed his eyes. He knew what Winter had told him of it, but they had only spoken briefly. “Sift” was not a word she had used; Knot didn’t see what it had to do with him.

“I should have known,” the Tokal muttered. “I’ll make it simple, so you and your elvish friends can understand. According to the art of acumency, a sift is a soul extracted from its body, capable of branding onto something else. A voidstone, another body, or a number of other repositories. Normally, only one sift can brand a repository.” The Tokal glanced at the Ceno monks behind him. “But we have been experimenting. You, my dear Knot, were our first successful branding of multiple sifts into one body.”

“An amalgamation of souls,” Knot whispered.

The Tokal smiled. “Precisely. Psimancers make the best repositories, after all. Far better than a normal body. But we were loath to kill off one of our own.”

“So when the Nazaniin sent you to assassinate me,” the emperor said, his voice booming throughout the hall, “we were able to skewer two fish with one spear.”

“Yes, of course,” the Tokal said. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He looked back at Knot. “We had to obliterate you first—extract your mind from your body—which explains your memory loss. Of course, when we branded you with the other sifts, we assumed you would take on
their
memories… but something was lost in the process.”

“How many sifts in total, Tokal?” the emperor asked. “How many did we brand him with?”

The Tokal frowned. There was definitely tension in their relationship, Knot noted. Something to exploit later.

“We began with nine, Your Grace,” the Tokal said. “Not including Lathe’s original sift.”

Knot looked back at the emperor, unsure what to believe. He was not just Lathe. He was Lathe and nine other people, crammed into the same body? The idea seemed insane, and yet it explained how so many tasks were easy to him.

“Of course, you did not wake for some time after the procedures,” the Tokal said. “The sifts remained dormant. We kept you on our research vessel in the Gulf of Nahl, waited for months, almost losing hope that your mind had survived the process. But then you awoke. And you escaped!” The Tokal laughed. “Our own ambition had defeated us, I’m afraid. The talents you inherited from your sifts were too much for us to control. At first, we thought the water had claimed you. But imagine our surprise when, over a year later, we heard of a human man getting married to a tiellan in a small town in northern Khale. A man who had shown up about one year earlier, with no memory of who he was or where he came from.”