point. Did they even realise they were under attack? Kalea was thumping his chair and being incendiary.
“But it’s our law! Not theirs!”
Reih reluctantly pushed herself from her chair. “No, Councillor Kalea. It is not our law. Nor is it theirs. Until we understand the law belongs to no-one, we shouldn’t even be allowed to speak of it. The law is its own. And so should it be. It is because of our tampering, our attempts at possession, that it is sick. It is sick because of us.“
“But Lianthre will descend into chaos without it!”
“Nonsense. Chaos is nothing to be afraid of. It is only change. It is to good what order is to evil. One only exist because of the other — the symbiosis is evident in all life — you truly think human law itself is outside of nature’s laws, not part of it?“
She thought about her meeting with Gurt, a builder! She wondered how many of the Councillors haranguing her were sending letters, too. She heard some of the gossip spreading (the Kuh’taenium heard far more that she ever would). If she was caught she would become part of that gossip — just like Tirielle. This was no place for idle banter. The Hierarchy could hear it — the Protectorate already had.
She turned back to the assembly in Kuh’taenium’s great interior. She looked at them bickering while the Kuh’taenium hung in the balance and she strove to keep her grasp on hope. How long now before the sickening took its effect on her? The memories of her home were already becoming warped in place. A small change, at first, but the personality could not but suffer the ailments of the body, and the Kuh’taenium’s body was more… demonstrative…than humans, with all their frailty sickness usually killed them before sickness reached the mind. The Kuh’taenium, in all its vastness, would die insane. Because of their linking she too would experience all its terrible agony and confusion as it journeyed on to death’s hall (how big they must be to fit the Kuh’taenium!).
Desperation makes odd bedfellows, she thought. Folly, perhaps, but, ah, desperation. To save the Kuh’taenium and herself she had just entrusted her life to some street brawler she had never met before.
The pointless debate rolled on. All the time she was thinking about the builders. They still existed. The Kuh’taenium was right, as always. While its power might be diminished, its memory was not.
Chapter Seventy
Before sunset the Sard made camp. j’ark sat silently, his sword beside him, his legs crossed and eyes closed. He emptied his mind but thoughts of Unthor intruded. He could not break his concentration though. Without their ninth fellow, the communion was more difficult. He sensed the feeling of loss among the Sard, sadness welling as their feelings were knitted together in concentration.
Thankfully, it was not long before Drun’s ethereal figure materialised before them, becoming more solid, more real with each passing second. He opened his eyes as soon as he felt the priest’s presence, and at once felt calmer. It was always surprising to him, the depth of peace that Drun Sard radiated.
“Brothers. I feel your loss. I too, am bereft.”
“We know loss as we knew our brother,” replied Quintal sadly. “It is our destiny to lose one another, until we are no more. But then, that is every man’s burden, and we deserve no less, no more, than any other mortal.”
Drun bowed to each of them in turn.
“As we lose each other, our spirits join. Join with Unthor’s spirit now, and as you knew him as a man take strength from his passing. Now, feel!”
And suddenly strength suffused j’ark’s aching muscles, the strength of Unthor. He felt none of Unthor’s fears or failings, just his purity, his power. His blood pounded in his temples, his muscles twitched and became engorged, as though he was feeding on his friend’s blood. But he knew that was not the case. It was Unthor’s last gift to them, the gift of the fallen, to share their essence with their brothers. Each time one fell, he would do the same for his brothers. They would not pass the gates until the last of them fell. Only then would their spirits pass into eternity, and finally know rest.
The power was amazing, even though j’ark knew it was only a portion of his brother’s spirit that had been invested in him.
Slowly, the pounding subsided, and he felt his heart rate return to mortal levels. Drun seemed to be smiling at him, even though he had not felt what he felt, he understood. It was not for Drun, this sharing of the spirit, for he was not a warrior. The feeling would taint him.
But he understood.
“Now, brothers, to matters at hand.”
“We have found the entrance to the resting place of the wizard. He is in a volcano, deep beneath the earth. There is a mountain range that splits the frozen lands, and the fire mountain is the largest.
“The Protectorate already hunt there. It is there that you must go.”
“How do you propose we travel?”
“There is a portal there.”
j’ark could feel apprehension rising.
“And the other end of the tunnel?”
“In Arram.”
As Drun explained, j’ark felt his apprehension growing. He did not think it was fear, but he knew more would fall in the halls of the enemy. He would leave the planning to better men — Typraille and Cenphalph, and Quintal.
His would be the sword that would grant them passage. He saw it in his head. He also noticed Drun looking at them all with kindness in his eyes, as he asked them to do the unthinkable. To Arram. His heart pounded once more, and he prepared himself. His finger crept to his sword. He wanted to feel its comfort, its heft, but to touch a weapon during communion would break the circle. Instead, he watched, and listened, as the Sard planned, and prayed, if his was the next death to be shared, that he would be brave.
He wondered if Tirielle would mourn him, should he fall.
He closed his eyes as Drun left the circle, and the last rays of sunlight drifted slowly onto his face.
This time, he was the last to rise, the last to leave the circle, but as always, he took his sword, and felt at peace.
Chapter Seventy-One
The snow drifted against the side of the tent, laying thick on the canvass. Inside, four men slept deeply. In their sleep Bourninund and Wen snored mountainous, growling snores. Drun’s face was serene, as though his inner peace extended to his dream life. The worries of the last day were behind him. His loss, which had drawn his face long and made his eyes, usually warm and kind, seem harsh as the winter sun, bleached of warmth, bringing light but little life.
Shorn tossed and turned in his sleep, his energy abundant even in the grip of whatever dream plagued him. His face was drawn into a snarl, lips pulled back to bare his gums, his breath coming in short gasps.
But Renir, lost in sleep, looked puzzled. Occasionally, he spoke, as though holding one side of a conversation. More often, he held both sides of the conversation himself. To Shorn, who knew him better, perhaps, than any other, it would seem as though Renir was holding a conversation with himself.
“Who are you?” Renir’s voice, somewhat muffled where his bedroll was bunched against his face.
“You already know. Perhaps, yet, you are not ready to accept.” His voice was pitched slightly higher than usual, the tone, the intonation, all wrong…a woman’s tone, chiding but laced with kindness.
“Who are you!” he shouted this time.
Drun awoke in the middle of the conversation, and pulled himself into a sitting position, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees.
The warriors slept, the priest watched, and Renir slept on, talking in his sleep, sometimes answering himself,
