The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (356 page)

‘That’s what worries me,’ Emin said, ‘but we have no choice. General Bessarei, make camp. Tomorrow, we march on the enemy.’

Ruhen stood before the thousands who had answered the call to accompany their armies. He closed his eyes and breathed in the faint honey scent of snowflowers, carried on the swirling breeze that grew steadily colder as the morning progressed. The flowers filled the southern end of the Stepped Gardens where an old wall stood. Above them fluttered tiny, five-pointed winter stars, which dotted the uneven top and colonised every nook and cranny of the wall itself.

The wind carried more than just the scent of flowers. He tasted the hopes and fears of all those assembled and felt the fervour of their belief like unexpected sunshine on his cheek. On his back he wore the wrapped sword – Ilumene had adapted a cross-chest baldric and incorporated it into Ruhen’s tunic. He was small enough that the sword still threatened to catch on the ground, but Ruhen was determined to keep it with him, especially now Zhia was dead and her secrets revealed.

This was his temple, even more than the prayer-festooned Duke’s Chamber, with its walls of unassailable conviction built by desperation and longing.

He wore a pearl-detailed tunic, open at the front to display a scored coin hanging on a chain around his neck. His preachers had carried the symbol far and wide; people spread across hundreds of miles now wore one just like it as an expression of their devotion. Most had not been touched by Ruhen’s shadow-spirit, of course; they were simple objects of faith, but there were dozens that did carry some trace of him, and Ruhen could feel his presence reach out like the folds of night.

Behind him he sensed Ilumene and Venn moving up to stand close as Luerce appeared on Ruhen’s left. The pale-skinned Litse was known by the whole crowd and the murmurs increased as they saw him. He was the First Disciple in their eyes, the shepherd of their flock of children, their link to Ruhen himself.

Strangely it was not Ilumene but Venn who would remind Luerce of his true position – the one he occupied in Azaer’s eyes. Or perhaps it was the spirit of Rojak in Venn’s shadow that was jealous of the reverence they showed Luerce, reverence that should rightly belong to Rojak as Azaer’s most favoured.

My twilight herald has a human soul still,
Ruhen reflected, smiling inwardly.
He fears the slow dissipation that Jackdaw has succumbed to, forgetting he is not one to be burned at the wick but a far greater part of me.

The end comes soon; they can all sense it. And in their human ways they bicker and squabble, for the waiting is suddenly too much for them to bear.

‘Brothers and sisters of peace,’ Ruhen called out in his solemn, child’s voice. ‘War has come for us.’ He bowed his head, his eyes closing for a moment as he savoured the new flavours bursting on the air: the earthy tang of fear blossoming, nectar-sweet anticipation, and hope, too, their faith in their saviour remaining unshakable. Against such flavours, how could flowers ever compare?

‘War has come, with its many faces, but with one purpose.’ Ruhen spoke in his usual soft voice, but Rojak was on hand to carry those words to the faithful. ‘The king and conqueror, ever keen to expand his reach; the heroic knight, eager to kill for his lord and further his own legend; the white-eye butcher, hungry for blood and pretending slaughter is glory rather than a monster’s basest desire. They come, and this day the Knights of the Temples shall face them.

‘I am just a child, too weak to march, too small to fight. They go to defend us, those of us who cannot defend ourselves, but they are outnumbered by an enemy more terrible than any the Land has seen.’

He hesitated, showing rare apprehension on his face to those close enough to see and appreciate the frailties of their saviour.

‘Our defenders face a terrible enemy, but it is not the Knights of the Temples that Narkang’s daemons seek to kill: no, they are coming for
me
– it is
my
blood they seek, and if our protectors fail, this plague of daemons will come to the Circle City.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot allow this horror to befall you, you are all innocent in this, but as long as they fear my message of peace they will hunt me. It is clear to me now that I must leave Byora, leave this protecting home and step out into the Land to walk alongside the preachers who carry my words.’

He stopped, the conviction on his sombre face enough to dampen the dismay and alarm that rushed around the gardens. There were gasps, the spice of panic waxing strong on the wind, but no shouts or cries this time. He didn’t want them to feel outrage, not now. The horror of what he was about to provoke would do that.

Until then, let them have hope. Let them see the saviour they desire.

‘This path has opened before me. The Gods have shown me the way’ – he smiled – ‘and all without the help of priests to interpret their wisdom.’

The comment lightened the mood a shade and Ruhen saw many of his white cloaked followers sit up a little straighter at their saviour making a small joke in the face of such impending terror.

‘I will travel east,’ he announced. ‘I will journey into the Waste, letting the will of the Gods guide my feet. I will travel into the lands scarred by the excesses of war and hatred, over poisoned earth and across fouled water, to seek the answers I know are out there. But before I go, I wish to share with you a gift, to protect the brave defenders of peace and this city, all I have ever known.’

He turned, and Ilumene hurried forward.

‘I ask for three of you to carry this gift,’ he continued as Ilumene untied the bindings around the sword on his back, then he gestured at the Litse. ‘Luerce, bring forward three whose faith is strong enough to bear this burden.’

There was no lack of volunteers, but the stern, silent Harlequins at the base of the steps prevented a sudden rush forward. Luerce picked his way down the steps with an almost fussy precision, revelling in the reverential air, uncaring whether the awe was reflected or not.

This one is the perfect servant, content in his place and faithful to his word,
Ruhen reflected as he watched the shaven-headed disciple survey his eager flock.
He is a rare man within my coterie of flawed traitors, trusting in his rewards to come and careful not to dream too grandly. Ilumene did well there.

‘Venn, shield your senses,’ Ruhen called behind him, and a hurried flare of power told him his order had been obeyed.

Three white-clad disciples came stumbling up the steps behind their shepherd: a burly, bearded man with odd-coloured eyes and the mien of a soldier fallen on hard times; an older woman, grey-haired but with a proud bearing and strong, handsome features, and a slim, black-haired youth following close behind.

Ruhen bowed to the three when the tallest came level with him and they stopped, hesitantly sinking to their knees. The Stepped Gardens grew quieter still, a congregation at prayer, as Ruhen looked down and, without ceremony, slipped off the cloth wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

The air filled with sparkling light, each mote of dust on the breeze glittering like a cloud of ice crystals. Gasps ran around the crowd and the wide-eyed youth kneeling before Ruhen gave a moan of shock. Ruhen slipped his small fingers around the shining sword grip and drew it from the scabbard. The blade sang in the daylight, casting a corona of dancing, dazzling light around him, and his followers sighed and whimpered, their hands raised to shade their eyes from the burst of white light that was as bright as the sun.

Ruhen was unable to look at the weapon held high above his head, but he felt his hand tremble at its touch. Without looking he could feel the pure, bright light shining through his skin, seeping into his bones and forcing his shadow-soul away. He gritted his teeth, unused to the discomfort slowly building towards pain, but determined.

Aenaris – the Key of Life, had been buried far from the sight of others in the Library of Seasons until the Menin lord broke the spell hiding it. Aenaris, wielded by the Queen of the Gods, Death’s equal, until the last days of the Great War. Azaer had kept its distance during those terrible days of earthquake and flame, of which only confused memories remained.

Many said the Queen of the Gods had sided with her beloved creations and fought at their side. Her name was considered accursed by all followers of the Chief of the Gods; it was recorded only in works of heresy, invoked fruitlessly by the foolish or the mad.

Did Zhia know her gift would pain me?
Ruhen wondered as his skin crawled and the palm of his hand shrieked in pain,
or does the Land seek balance for the white-eye’s burdens?

With an effort he lowered the weapon, feeling the shadows in his eyes recoil as light filled his mind. He took a step forward, then one more, and sensed the three disciples were within reach.

‘My gift I give to each of you,’ Ruhen croaked, ‘and so I charge you: bear my blessing in the name of peace.’

It was a long blade, wider than Ruhen’s palm, with a short tip like a crystal formation and a large forward-slanted guard. Each of the grip’s eight smooth faces was engraved with a phoenix, flanked by leaf-laden branches. Ruhen forced himself to face down its breathtaking presence and stare directly at the weapon more potent and powerful than anything in existence except its mate, Termin Mystt.

With his eyes closed and a single image in his mind, Ruhen touched the tip to the chest of each of the three terrified disciples. ‘Bear my blessing,’ he whispered tenderly to each as the vast magic surged out of Aenaris.

The youth was knocked backwards by its force and caught by Luerce, standing behind him, while the woman cried out in something between agony and ecstasy. The bearded man shuddered as though impaled and dropped flat on his face. The air shimmered white around him and rampant magics hissed in his bones.

Ruhen staggered back, visibly struggling with the power until Ilumene came forward to steady him. With Ilumene’s big hand carefully holding his own, Ruhen managed to return Aenaris to its sheath. Ilumene wasted no time in rewrapping the hilt until the crystal sword was again entirely hidden from view, then he stepped back, blinking away the ghost-trails of light.

Dazed by the power of the weapon, Ruhen stared dumbly at his hand as the pain receded. Everything was blurred after Aenaris’ bright light. Slowly focus returned and he looked down at the small hand of the body he’d stolen before its mother even realised she was pregnant, blinking at what he saw.

Aenaris had left its mark on him, Ruhen realised gradually. The pain in his eyes and reeling shadows under his skin diminished, but a white mark remained on his hand. His palm and the inside of his fingers were scorched white where he had touched the crystal sword. He flexed his hand, testing the sore, taut flesh for signs of greater damage, but if he had really been burned, the Key of Life had healed him, just as it had when an assassin had shot him the day the Harlequins arrived.

His attention was dragged towards the three disciples by a sudden howl from the youth, who was convulsing in Luerce’s arms. His eyes was staring unseeing up at the sky, his back was arched in pain. The alarmed First Disciple eased the youth onto the flagstones at the top of the stairs just as pinpricks of light appeared over the surface of his body. The same thing was happening to the other two, though the woman had somehow stayed upright, but as the flowering stars intensified, she moaned and bent forward as though in prayer.

Each of the three curled up as the light started weaving a skein of shining threads over them. The spider-silk slowly enveloped them and Ruhen found himself taking a step back as his immortal senses felt the rush of magic around them continuing to expand until it had become an unseen torrent of power in the air.

Venn sensed it too, and distantly Ruhen heard the former Harlequin gasp and fall to his knees, nearly overwhelmed despite the shield he’d had raised.

The woman shuddered as though struck by two great blows and writhed left and right under the cocoon of power. Where she touched the shining threads they stuck to her clothes, then her hair and hands too, searing her skin just as Aenaris had marked Ruhen. One hand pushed out, reaching towards him, an awkward movement, jerking forward and back, and when she moved, a lattice of white threads remained.

Beside her the young man kicked wildly, his silence disconcerting, as though he was suffering an agony that could not be expressed with a scream.

The three figures became increasingly blurred, hands and feet thrusting out under the webs of magic, all unnatural angles and movements that expanded the cocoons and all-too-soon stopped corresponding to anything human. Behind them Ruhen saw a scramble of figures, Harlequins and disciples alike, drawing back – all fearful of touching those glittering threads that seared the pale daylight.

The younger man’s cocoon tumbled down the slope onto a lower tier, momentarily out of sight until an arm or something drove upwards and expanded its form higher than a man. The two remaining came together with a hiss and crackle of competing energies, burning the air between them and creating some sort of barrier against which both pressed as they continued their astonishing growth. By fits and starts their progress went in opposite directions, blackening the grass as they reached it and scoring trails over flagstones.

Another spasm brought one, then the others, up even higher, as though a horse were rearing up within the cocoon. Shapes pressed against the inner surface, curved and alien in form, but against the intense light Ruhen’s eyes could not make out anything definite. Again the boy was forced to retreat, now shielding his shadow-lidded eyes from the light.

Something arched and held its position, working up into the air with sharp, jagged movements. The shapeless masses were growing larger with every passing moment and at last the cocoons were starting to weaken, sagging and tearing in places. The lightbound shapes rose again, this time driving up from the ground and huge grey talons ripped through the membrane. The frayed edges curled away as they were torn, flapping in a breeze Ruhen could not feel, until they caught against the talons and feet above them and melted onto the flesh and bone.