Ecko Rising

wealth and our work and do nothing.”

The accusation was close enough to the truth to leave Rhan breathless. Something in him said, No, it wasn’t like that, I’ve always... But it was there, like a fibre-pin jabbing in his skin. If he had been fulfilling his mandate, he would have seen this coming, returns ago.

Phylos did not stop. “He is a lodestone and a drain upon us, a figure of indolence and luxury. Who can know what takes place under the roofs of his home? I say, that if there is a daemon, it is the daemon sloth, it is the daemon idleness, it is the daemon that keeps us from our crafthalls and tithehalls and farmlands and markets! This – creature – has believed that he is above the laws of this city! He has traded in substances we abhor, he has corrupted our youth, he has –” and here he paused, arms raised completely and blazing with red fabric and rising heat “– murdered the loved Lord of this city and taken his wife by force –”

“I did not – !” The cry was torn like a sob from Rhan’s throat – a cry of denial and horror. “I did not touch the Lord Demisarr, nor lay hands on his wife, I – !”

“You lie, daemon!” Savagely, Phylos rounded on him, his red robes vivid as gore. He used his voice like a goad, forcing the crowd into a frenzy. “You are an infection! You have controlled and manipulated the sons of Saluvarith all your life! You have sat in this very room and pulled our strings like puppets! You claim innocence, yet you have inflicted such harm...!” He turned to Selana, overpowering in his presence and strength. “If he is innocent, my Lord, it is time for him to tell us the truth behind his longevity. The truth behind the bargains he has made that have given him four hundred returns of life!”

Phylos turned back to Rhan with a curiosity that verged on avid.

Flattened by Phylos’s demand, Selana, also, turned to look at him.

“The Merchant Master is right,” she said. Her voice was small in the chaos, but the crowd quietened to hear her. “You are a blight upon the city – and a blight upon my family.” The word was a painful crack and she stood up, quivering with tension. “You are a drain upon our resources and a stagnation to our growth. Your time is done.”

For a moment, Rhan could only stare at her.

He said, his voice barely a growl, “Make no mistake, the daemon Vahl Zaxaar exists. And he will return.”

But the words fell to the floor and he realised they sounded as ludicrous as Roderick’s visions. The crowd were tittering, some calling for answers and others for blood.

His hands still bound, Rhan raised his voice to call over them.

“All my life, Merchant Master,” he said, “I have guarded the children of Saluvarith, and I have watched the Grasslands flourish under Fhaveonic rule.” In the sea of people, jeers began. “I swore my oath of allegiance to the First Lord Foundersson Tekissari, who named me his Seneschal, and I have upheld that oath for four hundred returns. To whom have you sworn your allegiance, Phylos? To your own greed?”

For a second, he almost had it. There was a moment of quiet, the stillness in the eye of the storm – a moment when Selana turned startled eyes upon her mentor, where Valicia’s gaze narrowed. Gorinel the priest studied Rhan intently. The soldier Mostak’s forehead lined as he strained to think.

But Phylos laughed – astonished, disbelieving laughter that shattered the stillness like crystal.

“You choose now to spread dissent?” He guffawed, as if at a great jest. Then his laughter was shut off. “Answer the question, Rhan. To whom have you sold your soul? To what?”

Ignoring Phylos, ignoring the crowds’ mockery, Rhan faced Selana, and paused.

The room was seething with heat.

He sank to one knee.

“I am Rhan, Lord Seneschal of Fhaveon,” he said. “And I swear by my Gods-given mandate that I am D?l Rhan Elensiel, Master of Light, keeper of Saluvarith’s vision, and of this mortal world. I love and guard this city with everything I am. And when my damned brother returns... My Lord, heed me. Without me, you and everything you love will perish in flames and screaming.”

The theatre was silent. Selana stared, stunned. Valicia’s skin was white.

Then, somewhere in the crowd, Rhan could hear Scythe’s voice, shrieking accusations.

Knowing he had only this one moment, the single chance to seize the situation, Rhan said, “You know your legends, my Lord. You know who and what I am, and why I have lived four hundred returns.” He raised his voice to call out up through the Theatre, his voice filling the room with sound. “And you know that I did not, could not, have raised my hand against the Lord Demisarr – or against his wife.”

Gathering her wits, Selana opened her mouth to speak.

But Phylos was frighteningly fast. “Would one of the D?l import illegal drugs? Seduce the city’s idle and take them from their work? Host parties that damage and distress our youth?”

Rhan stared.

“I say you are a plague – a blight. I say you are arta ekanta, a daemon figment that has taken on the form of the city’s saviour!” Phylos moved around the edge of the table and raised his voice to an impassioned cry. “Perhaps you are Vahl Zaxaar! You are corruption in our midst!”

Horrified by the speed with which Phylos had overturned his plea, Rhan tried to stop him.

“No – !”

“And I say you must die!”

The soldiers stepped forwards to restrain him. About him, the crowd surged into outcry, demanding satisfaction. He looked for help, but there was no one to even meet his gaze.

His failure could not have been more complete.

There was no further assurance he could give, no way he could reclaim his place – the city belonged to Phylos and there was no move he could make.

He collapsed to his knees, the heat sobbing in his chest.

And they dragged him upright, and walked him from the theatre for the very last time.

* * *

Rammouthe Island.

By legend, the Island Accursed. The home of the Ilfead-Syr, the world’s lost memory. The last refuge of the sleeping Kas Vahl Zaxaar.

From this height, it was grey line against the horizon, a hummock of darkness.

No ship had touched its shore since the Bard’s disastrous reconnaissance, some forty returns previously. No foot had dared its soil. Stood upon the very top of the sheer, white wall that ran down the eastern edge of the Fhaveon to the roiling sea, Rhan wondered, rather foolishly, if they would release his wrists – if he should swim the Bava Strait and reach the island safely.

And what would be waiting for him if he did.

If anything still lay there, the island had swallowed it long ago and refused to give it up.

The sky above Rhan’s final moments was vast and distant, merciless. If the Gods were there, they did not look down to see him. Images assaulted him – plummeting through air and cold and pain, war and chaos, stormy skies and hammering seas, scourging the city’s foes with light and with metal, Kas Vahl Zaxaar, closer than brother and powerful, terrible enemy...

...the tiny newborn that was the next Foundersson or daughter, holding each one in his white hands and promising them his loyalty until the end of the Count of Time...

Rhan lifted his face to the wind.

“A long wait, my estavah,” he said to the horizon. “And this is how it ends? Wake up, damn you. You owe me breakfast.”

But, like the Gods, his brother did not heed him.

It was Phylos who came to stand with him, red robes snapping in the cold wind. Further back, Valicia had come to watch and Selana, Lord Foundersdaughter, stood with her mother’s hands on her shoulders. The warrior Mostak stood with them, looking for a moment like a sharper, colder version of his murdered brother. They were a family wronged, and he could see nothing in their faces that spoke of understanding.

I did not do this. You must know...

“Last words?” said Phylos softly.