The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (52 page)

As Brandt jumped back, the man pulled himself up and fled back
towards his own troops, who shrank away from the burning soldier. The commander found his footing on the now-sloping walkway and
backed away from the flames to where Isak knelt, motionless. The burning man was flailing madly at his comrades, then he tripped on
the corpses at his feet and set them alight too.

‘What’s happening?’ demanded Carel as he appeared in the narrow
doorway and barged out to where King Emin stood. Sheer exhaustion
made him put pride to one side and reach for Doranei’s shoulder to steady himself; instinct was all that was keeping the veteran Ghost
going now, for his arm was bleeding badly and he was ready to retch
from fatigue. But Carel was a professional, and his boy was still out
there. Somehow he found the strength to continue.

‘Lord Isak seems to be casting some sort of spell.’ The king pointed
upwards. ‘Look at the sky - that’s not natural.’ They all looked at the angry clouds roiling in the air above Isak. Even the gigantic silver-clad white-eye seemed insignificant against that brooding mass of
violence.

‘The mage said he was calling down the storm.’

‘Well, it looks like it’s about to hit.’

The wall shook again, a deep rumble that rose to a tortuous cracking as a ten-yard stretch ripped away and collapsed inwards. Isak hadn’t
moved, but everyone could feel the pressure in the air mounting. They
knew something had to give soon. Near to him, Brandt attacked the advancing troops with reckless abandon, putting everything he had
into a furious volley of blows.

‘He’s trying to take on an entire army,’ cried one young Kingsguard
soldier, ‘but he’s just
a
watchman.’

‘Just a watchman, boy?’ roared the king, anger flaring from nothing
to a holy terror. ‘He might be saving your life!’

Brandt took another blow on the shield and lunged up at his attacker’s throat. The man fell, but another stepped forward and caught Brandt on the shoulder. He reeled, crying out in pain, but the sound was lost as a bolt of lightning crashed down on to the tower where
the mages had stood. For a moment the men on the wall were frozen
in time, as were the figures scrambling through the breach and spill
ing out into the scarred gardens. Then the tower was struck again,
then the wall, then the ground, again and again. The storm was upon
them, called by the Lord of Storms himself.

‘As
the shadows rose and the enemy appeared on all sides,
Nartis
spoke
to the heavens. The storm obeyed his call and unleashed its legions - and he
rained terrible fire down upon that place of death,’
intoned Carel. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. A few Kingsguard men turned with questioning faces as the air was split with fire and the voice of the
storm raged unchecked, lashing down one bolt after another.

It was a quotation every Farlan knew, and it came from the legends
before the Great War. King Emin saw the Ghost beside him mouth
the words of a prayer, then he turned to gain a last glimpse of Commander Brandt, struggling hopelessly against two attackers. Then the burning white light was all he could see, pierced only by the screams of the dying and the very earth itself trembling.

‘And so it begins.’ His thoughts stirred lazily, as if moving against the heavy current of a river.

‘What do you mean?’

The banished have returned. Soon you will command an army of
the Devoted. Prophecies are stirring and you’re at their heart.’

‘I’ve never wanted this.’

‘What do you want? Can you fight what must come to pass?’

‘I don’t know, but I don’t want a war that could tear the Land apart.
If the prophecies of this Age are colliding, who knows what destruction could result?’

‘Sometimes peace can only come about through war. You cannot sit
and do nothing when others strive to conquer and destroy.’

‘That’s not the same as being the Saviour people expect.’

The life I am trapped in is one of premonitions and possibilities. I
can sense some of your future because it’s a future I will share. Dark
clouds are gathering, forces you cannot control. I’ve seen you dead
while a horror takes your place and leaves you mindless; living like an
animal; cast into the Dark Place while the Land goes to ruin.’

‘So what can I do? Let the Devoted pledge themselves to me when
I meet them in Llehden?’

‘Llehden? Who suggested meeting there? It’s a place of great power;
I can’t imagine the Devoted being welcome there. They must be desperate to keep the meeting secret. When you go there, you will meet the witch of Llehden. She may be able to help you.’

‘What help could some village crone give me?’

The Land is slipping out of balance, driven by power used without thought given to the consequences. The witch draws her power from the Land itself, where there must be balance in all things. I believe she will not stand aside and allow that to be destroyed, and that she will recognise your own need for balance. I sense she will show you a path through darkness.’

The darkness brightened. Isak felt his limbs, tired and aching, and his eyes caked with tears. Wakefulness insinuated itself, sharp and
insistent, though he longed to sink back into the sanctuary of sleep.
He felt a bed beneath him, damp and clammy after the cool cradle of empty air. The buzz of conversation stung at his ears before calming
into words, and voices he recognised. Slowly, he returned to the Land
and its cares.

‘We should let him sleep.’

‘He needs to be up, so people can see him.’

‘How did he survive?’

‘How do you think? His first hours as Lord of the Parian - Nartis could hardly fail to watch over him, especially during a storm. What I want to know is how he did what he did. It wasn’t just using his magic to create lightning, he actually called the storm on to him. It scared the shit out of the king’s mages, and then-‘

‘But what about his arm?’

That I can’t explain. Reckon we’ll need a mage or maybe a priest to explain that.’

Isak suddenly gasped for air, as though surfacing from water. The people around his bed jumped back in surprise - he’d been as still as a corpse. Now his heaving gulps of breath sounded like a return to life. Looking up, Isak focused on the roof above. He was in the palace,
some corner of a lavishly decorated hall. With an effort he brought his
mind into focus: was this the Queen’s Hall? It wasn’t the main audience chamber; it was a smaller and more elegant room.

‘How do you feel?’

Isak had to suppress a laugh at Tila’s question. He had not taken stock of his injuries yet, but he did know every bone and muscle in
his body hurt. Lifting his head from whatever was supporting it caused
a sharp spasm of pain to drive deep behind his eyes and his vision
wavered and blurred.

When he opened his eyes again, Tila and Mihn were kneeling at his side, hands on his chest and forehead to keep him still.

‘Careful,’ Tila warned him softly. The wall collapsed under you;
you fell quite a way.’

‘What happened?’ Isak croaked.

‘What happened?’ Carel repeated behind her. Isak forced his eyes
to focus on his old friend. He saw a battered and weary face, bruised
and still bleeding a little down the left-hand side. His arm was in
a sling, wrapped in grubby bandages. ‘Don’t you remember bringing
down the wrath of the Gods on those soldiers?’

‘I-No, I remember flashes. That’s all.’

‘Flashes is all there were, boy!’ A glint appeared in Carel’s eye. ‘A whole damn lot of them, more lightning than nature ever cast down in one place. We still don’t know how many you killed, but it was hundreds. They had crammed near every man they had into the breach. You had your shield in the air and it attracted the lightning, then channelled it down on to them.’

Isak could feel a dull throb in his hand, but it was mild compared to how the rest of his body felt. He carefully lifted his shield arm - and fought back a scream. To his absolute horror his left arm had changed completely: it
felt
the same: same size, and weight, but instead of his usual healthy colour it glowed an unearthly white, shining in the bright morning sunlight. The skin was perfectly smooth, and unbroken by even the slightest scratch. It looked as if every drop ofblood, every hint of colour, had been leached from his arm. Panicking, he raised his other hand, but that looked normal, although grazed
and bruised after the battle.

‘It’s only the left one,’ Tila said softly, soothingly, but her expression betrayed her alarm.

‘How far up does it go?’ He tried to twist his head sideways to get a better look, but the effort made him wince in pain and he let his head slump back on the pillows.

‘Just beyond the shoulder,’ Mihn said, appearing behind Tila. ‘It
ends abruptly - it looks like you’ve dipped your arm in paint.’ He betrayed no emotion now. Isak remembered seeing him fighting on the
wall, wielding only his staff. Mihn had surpassed even the men of the
Brotherhood for agility and speed. He’d not been hurt, avoiding even
the smallest cut, though his tears had flowed freely. He’d vowed never again to use a sword after he failed to become a Harlequin, but he had
broken that vow to help rescue Isak from the White Circle; that was
one more shame he felt on his soul.

Dipped in paint: that was an accurate description, Isak thought: the bit he could see wasn’t translucent, not drained of colour at all, just
purely white. He remembered how the lightning had curled lovingly
around his arm, its burning bright light first warming his skin, then seeping down to the very bone. Now he looked closer, he could see the fine hairs, and two moles on his forearm, still there, but snow-coloured. Although he healed exceptionally fast and almost inhumanly well, he had one scar, from when he’d fallen from a tree and nearly
lost his arm: now that was barely visible. Isak stared at it in fascination. Blue veins were just visible under the skin. His arm wasn’t damaged, just touched by the divine.

He reached for Eolis, lying at his side, and touched the edge of the blade against his forearm. Despite the battle it was as sharp as ever: he watched, mesmerised, as a trickle of scarlet edged its way down his arm. The contrast against his skin was shocking.

‘If you’ve quite finished?’ Tila sound exasperated. ‘I’ve just bandaged every wretched cut on your body and you want to make more? Don’t mind me, will you.’

Isak looked up at the girl, grinning wider as a reluctant smile
crossed her own lips. Her once-elegant green silk dress was now torn and stained with blood, and frayed at the edges where she’d ripped off
the flounces for bandages and run a knife from thigh to calf to free her
legs enough to move properly.

As he took in her appearance he realised with a jolt that his own
chest was bare. His hand immediately went to the scar there.

‘Ah, yes,’ Carel said quietly, ‘and then there’s that. What in Nartis’s name is it, boy? Why didn’t you bloody tell me about it?’ Though the words were harsh, his voice remained at conversational level.

‘King Emin saw it too,’ commented Vesna, moving into Isak’s field of vision. Isak was pretty sure the pained expression on his face had nothing to do with the crutch he was resting on.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘He did, my Lord, and I hope it makes more sense to you.’

Isak narrowed his eyes at the formality. Clearly the count was hurt that he’d not been deemed trustworthy enough to tell.

‘He said he wondered why you’d chosen it.’

That’s all?’

He nodded.

Isak suddenly felt as though all the energy had drained from his body. He sagged back on to the bed. He didn’t even have enough
strength to feel guilty yet.

‘Well?’ Carel demanded.

‘Please, not today. There’s too much to do, too many to grieve for.’ Isak coughed feebly, taking a moment to recover his breath again.
‘Can you leave me alone for a while?’

None of them looked happy, but Isak’s fatigue was obviously not
put on just to get out of an awkward conversation. They moved away
silently and crossed the hall to join Mistress Daran, who was supervising the nursing of the wounded Ghosts lying there.

Isak lay back and tried to identify the points of pain in his body. Once his headache had calmed a bit it was easier, using his supernatural awareness, to ensure that no great damage had been done. He
had no broken bones; nothing had got past Siulents. There were deep bruises from where axes and swords had pounded against his armour,
but his weakness was mainly from the overuse of magic.

A faint smile appeared on his lips as he remembered wielding the power of the storm. A tremor of that power still rang in his bones: an echo of the divine.

After a few minutes of staring up at the beautifully painted ceiling, listening idly to the distant voices, he began to feel a little stronger. Gingerly he lifted his head and raised himself up on to his elbows.
The pain had dulled a bit: now it felt like an awful hangover - albeit
one that affected his soul as well. His huge body felt heavy and awkward; even the smallest movement was an effort.

At last he managed to get himself out of bed. He stood there swaying as Mihn dragged over a chair for him so he could sit with a little
more dignity. Isak caught sight of Tila, Carel and Vesna, watching
from a little distance, allowing Mihn to help his Lord. Tila sent some
one off to find food and in a few minutes a servant appeared with a
platter and a steaming jug of tea. Isak wrapped his hands around the pot, huddling over it to breathe in the warm vapour.

‘Where’s my brother’s body?’ The booming voice made Isak flinch as it echoed through the hall. A broad man stormed in through the
far end of the hall, ahead of a small group of people. In stark contrast
a tiny man, a palace official by his dress, was trotting behind, trying
to keep up. His hands were clasped anxiously together as he pursued
the larger man.

‘My Lord, Suzerain Toquin, if I could please speak to you alone-‘ ‘Damn you, man, no, you can’t!’ the man snarled, casting a contemptuous look at the, servant. His scarlet and white tunic was immaculate and expensive. Suzerain Toquin’s face reddened with rage as he looked down the hall, then spied Isak and strode on past the women in his group trying to calm him down. One had a young boy clutching at her skirts.

The nobleman glared at the white-eye as if daring him to complain about the intrusion. Isak recalled the name: Commander Brandt’s brother, and he remembered Brandt’s heroic actions on the wall, and his final sacrifice. Suzerain Toquin could hardly be faulted for being
angry.

Isak pulled himself up as straight as he could and said, ‘My lord, you must be Commander Brandt’s brother. I apologise for not getting up to greet you, but I’ve been in a bit of a fight.’

The man scowled, mollified slightly by Isak’s respectful tone. ‘You must be the Dowager Countess Toquin?’ Isak continued, looking at the older of the two women in the suzerain’s party.

She gave a small curtsey; her tear-stained eyes never left Isak’s
face.

‘You, madam, must be Lady Toquin.’ He smiled gently at the younger woman and turned to the boy. ‘And you are the son Commander Brandt spoke of so proudly.’ The woman bobbed her head and clutched the boy closer; her grief was almost palpable, but it didn’t
look like the boy had yet fully grasped that his father was never com
ing home. He was only nine, Isak thought, too young to fully understand what had happened yet.

‘Come here, Master Toquin,’ he said softly, and beckoned to the
boy.

His mother tightened her grip for a moment, then released him and gave him a little push forward. Brandt’s son took a few steps towards
Isak, unafraid of the white-eye until he closed on him and realised just
how big he was - even hunched over in his seat, Isak towered over the boy.

Moving slowly so he wouldn’t take fright, Isak pointed at the ring hanging from a leather thong around the boy’s neck. He had no idea whether this was how one treated children this age, but the boy looked ready to flee back to his mother at the slightest provocation. He was a thin child, looking more like his mother than his father to
Isak’s eyes.

‘Did your father give you that?’

The boy nodded.

‘Did he tell you it was mine?’

Another nod, then the boy’s trembling hand reached up and touched the silver ring about his neck. ‘Do you want it back?’ The
boy sounded understandably upset at the thought of returning his last
gift from his father.