Bloodline (Cradle Book 9) Page 8

  [Beginning report…]

  King Daruman the First was not only the ruler who united his Iteration, but who ushered it into an unprecedented golden age.

  As a warrior, he was unparalleled, bringing his sword against the planet-eaters that plagued his people.

  As a king, he was known both for his wisdom and his character. Even his rivals found no blemish on his integrity, and his people were fed, happy, and educated. “To seek the knowledge of Daruman” became a common saying meaning “to seek absolute truth.”

  He ruled for three hundred years, until he felt the realm was stable enough to pass on to a successor. Not to a child of his, but to a candidate that proved themselves before the realm.

  After watching over the second generation of his unified world, he ascended to seek more worlds to save.

  The Abidan considered him perfect. Even as they delved into his mind, they found a humble hero, a ruler who wanted nothing more than to improve the world.

  So they gave him worlds to improve.

  Daruman was chosen by the second Court of Seven to be among the first of what they were to call their Executors. He was an agent of the Abidan, but un-bound to the Eledari Pact, so he was not prevented from interfering in Fate.

  He and his four peers were sent to dying worlds, to defeat the threat from the inside and prolong the existence of the Iterations as long as possible.

  At first, the experiment was declared a success.

  None of those first-generation Executors were less than perfect, world-level combatants with sharp minds and resolute hearts. They saved world after world, allowing the Abidan to expand their Sectors and add more and more Iterations to their protection.

  Daruman was not the first of those Executors to go rogue.

  In fact, he was the last.

  Though each Executor was mentally evaluated upon their return from a mission, their futures could not be read. By the nature of their work, they diverged from Fate regularly, so they became a blank spot for the Hounds.

  When the first Executor fled Abidan control and took over a distant Iteration, the Hounds were shocked.

  When the second gave up and lay down her weapon with no warning, they became alarmed. They enacted new restrictions on their remaining three Executors, as well as more extensive screening.

  But by nature of their role, Executors were beyond Abidan monitoring while on assignment. The third Executor burned to the ground the world he was meant to save, insisting there was no other way to be rid of corruption.

  Daruman chased down that peer himself, performing the execution with his own sword.

  The fourth Executor attacked the Abidan. She tried to bring them down for reasons that were never clear, falling at the hands of Razael.

  By this point, trust in the Executors was nonexistent. A second generation had already been appointed, but these had been raised from birth by the Abidan themselves, designed to be perfectly competent and loyal. Daruman was already considered a relic of an embarrassing past.

  But he continued his role, finding satisfaction in saving world after world.

  Until he found a world he couldn’t save.

  Oth’kimeth, the Conqueror, had been considered a Class Two Fiend when it broke through Sector Control to invade an Iteration. As it began to feed, its designation was raised to Class One, and Daruman himself went to stop it.

  He spent fourteen years in that Iteration. Due to the influence of chaos, records of that time are spotty, but it is generally agreed that he found Oth’kimeth to be a much greater opponent than expected.

  Finally, he determined that the only way to truly remove Oth’kimeth was to seal the Fiend inside a vessel capable of resisting its temptation: himself.

  Daruman returned to Sanctum and reported to the Judges the successful completion of his mission. He invited them to inspect him for any signs of chaotic control. He was still in command of himself, and he could turn the powers of a Class One Fiend to good.

  The Court of Seven, unable to read his fate, nevertheless knew that no one could resist the machinations of a Class One Fiend forever. They weren’t even certain that he hadn’t already been corrupted.

  They imprisoned him in the depths of Haven.

  There he languished for centuries, in the heart of the Abidan prison-world. Just him and Oth’kimeth.

  Four hundred and nineteen years after his imprisonment, he escaped. It was a feat never equaled before or since in the history of the Abidan.

  Daruman was pursued by the second Makiel, who chased him into the depths of the void. To the horror of the Court, Makiel was defeated, suffering damage to the origin of his existence that would eventually cause him to pass on his mantle.

  In a message broadcast to all of Sanctum and several others of the Abidan core worlds, Daruman declared the Abidan tyrants and swore himself to their destruction. He gathered up his original Iteration, forging it into the great fortress Tal’gullour, and moved to another world.

  The people were all that mattered to the Way, he said, not the Iterations themselves. The Abidan were nothing more than jailers, and he would gather power until he brought them down.

  It was determined by the Court that his will had been corrupted by Oth’kimeth, and he was given his new title: the Mad King.

  [Suggested topic: the fall of the second-generation Executors. Continue?]

  [Denied, report complete.]

  Mount Samara’s ring was beginning to fade when they arrived at the eastern entrance to Sacred Valley.

  The white halo around the snow-peaked mountain was dimming with the approach of sunlight in the pre-dawn twilight, and Lindon found his eyes growing wet.

  Every night of his life for fifteen years, he’d slept under the light of this mountain. Now, it filled the windows of his own personal cloud fortress as he returned.

  Lindon blinked his vision clear. He’d been preparing for this moment since the day he’d left.

  So he couldn’t mess it up.

  Tell the ships to land and power down, Lindon ordered Dross. Send as many Golds after us as they can spare. We expect to return within three days.

  Dross obeyed, though he added his own commentary on the likelihood that they would actually be back within three days.

  The Akura ships set down at the border of the blackened forest that represented the Desolate Wilds, but Lindon and the others flew closer to Mount Samara.

  They couldn’t get any closer than the smaller mountains and hills surrounding Sacred Valley, as the aura was starting to fade already. Lindon’s spiritual sense couldn’t penetrate far beyond this point, and he was having to spend more and more energy to keep their cloud base afloat.

  Next to him, Eithan shuddered. “It’s like diving face-first into a bucket of ink. I’m afraid my bloodline legacy won’t be of much use to you from here on, although I myself will be the same emotional asset and source of courage as always.”

  Ziel slumped against the wall, his horns glowing slightly green as he regarded the view in front of them. “It’ll be more uncomfortable than you think.”

  As Lindon landed on a snowy mountainside within sight of Mount Samara, he risked a moment of inattention to glance back at Ziel. He hadn’t considered what entering a power-dampening boundary formation would feel like to Ziel. It could dredge up years of painful memories.

  Then again, he hadn’t considered Ziel much at all. Eithan was the one who had recruited the man, not Lindon. Ziel had linked his cloud fortress to theirs as they approached, so it would land as they did.

  “If you would like to stay here, I would be grateful to have someone reliable protecting our base,” Lindon suggested.

  “I’m used to having my power suppressed. But if you want me to stay here, I’ll stay here.”

  Lindon doubted he was just being polite. As usual, he sounded as though he wouldn’t care if the ship exploded around him.

  Mercy was standing right up against the window, staring at Samara’s ring. “It’s beautiful! I can
’t wait to see it from up close!”

  “Only get that view if we stay at Heaven’s Glory for the night,” Yerin pointed out. “Which I’m not panting and begging to do.”

  From Lindon’s shoulder, Little Blue gave a ringing agreement.

  Lindon found it hard to pry his view away from the shining loop of light, but he forced himself to move. He ran his spiritual sense through the beautiful, roomy void key now hanging from his neck. His wintersteel badge hung on the outside, a lump of cold power that resonated as his attention moved over it.

  Dross was ready. Little Blue was ready. Orthos was an indistinct lump in the back of his mind, a comforting heat. Lindon hoped for the chance to track him down after this was over.

  “Let’s go.”

  Lindon led the way out of the fortress.

  Mount Samara was the highest, most visible mountain around them, but that didn’t mean the surrounding peaks were small. This distance had taken them days for Lindon and Yerin to travel, even with the help of a Thousand-Mile Cloud, though they had been injured and weak at the time.

  Now, they all had Thousand-Mile Clouds except Mercy, who followed them on her staff. Yerin pulled one from her own void key, which Lindon still wasn’t used to. She had gone without a void key for so long, but neither the Winter Sage nor the Akura clan would have let the victor of the Uncrowned King tournament go without.

  It would be a few minutes before the Golds were organized enough to catch up, but some had already begun gathering up on their own clouds. It seemed like they would be accompanied by about a dozen Golds from each of the remaining twenty-three ships, and Lindon was filled with gratitude at the sight. He would have to thank Charity when they returned.

  He had plenty of time to think, because their Thousand-Mile Clouds moved at barely a crawl.

  Their clouds couldn’t reach anything close to full speed out here. This was within a few miles of the spot where Lindon had opened his Copper sight for the first time, and he remembered how vivid the colors had seemed. They had been almost blinding.

  When Lindon opened that sight now, the colors were muted and washed out. Barely there. As though the vital aura had been squeezed dry.

  Is this the Titan? Lindon asked Dross in alarm. The only bright colors came from the veins of yellow earth aura beneath their feet, which were clearly affected by the approach of the Dreadgod. Had he somehow used hunger madra to drain all the other types of aura into the ground?

  Dross coughed politely. [The veins of earth aura staying bright are an effect of proximity to the Dreadgod, yes, I’m sure that’s true. But everything else…uh, I think it’s just like that here. Not that it isn’t beautiful!]

  Weak.

  This place was so weak.

  Their Thousand-Mile Clouds functioned, but they were built for areas with much higher concentration of aura. It might actually be faster to run.

  Even so, these clouds were incomparably faster than the one that had originally taken Lindon and Yerin the other direction. This time, they covered that distance in under an hour.

  When they arrived, Lindon withdrew his cloud into his void key and landed in the snow. He could feel the boundary in front of him. The border of Sacred Valley.

  The vital aura was weak for miles around, certainly. When he crossed that line, it wouldn’t be any weaker. But he would be.

  There was an emptiness past this point. A vampiric power. A hunger.

  Eithan put his hands on his hips and looked all the way up, as though regarding an invisible wall. “Well, isn’t this unpleasant?”

  “I’d rather walk headfirst into a sewer,” Ziel said as he plunged into the field without hesitation. He didn’t change visibly as he passed the barrier, trudging through the snow at the same rate.

  Mercy leaned close to the invisible force, sticking her arm in and shuddering, pulling it out. “How long before it affects us, you think?”

  “Sooner we’re in, sooner we’re out,” Ziel called back.

  Eithan tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled across. “Since I can’t watch everyone, I expect all of you to describe your actions in detail at all times. Start now.”

  [I’m looking through Lindon’s memories for the path in,] Dross reported. [Looks like it’s a straight line.]

  “Excellent work, Dross.”

  Lindon didn’t remember pulling out Suriel’s marble, but he ran the warm glass through the fingers of his left hand. As usual, its steady blue light was a comfort.

  Yerin had stayed back with him, and now she brushed the red streak of hair out of her eye and looked up at him in concern. “Won’t blame you if your steps aren’t steady.”

  “This route will take us past the Ancestor’s Tomb,” Lindon said quietly.

  Yerin darkened. “Yeah.” She gripped the hilt of the sword at her waist.

  The one she’d pulled out of the Tomb.

  She carried her other blade, Netherclaw, in her void key now. This one, she always strapped to her belt.

  Side-by-side, they crossed the boundary into Sacred Valley.

  Despite Lindon’s expectation, it wasn’t much different on the other side. He could feel something tugging on his power, as though his spirit had sprung a leak, and at the same time his senses were smothered by a blanket.

  But neither were as uncomfortable as he’d imagined. At this rate, it would take days to weaken his spirit enough to make a difference. He might evacuate his family before he fell to the level of a Jade.

  Yerin swayed in mid-step, and he reached out a hand.

  He barely caught her before she collapsed.

  In less than the blink of an eye, he had dashed out of the boundary formation, landing in a spray of snow. Yerin gasped as though she had emerged from deep water, her red eyes wide.

  Lindon still clutched her in both hands. “What happened?”

  “Too much,” she said, still breathing heavily. “It took too much.”

  Only a few yards away, Eithan looked down at himself. “Hm…I see. The boundary siphons strength away rather than suppressing it as a veil would. I suspect I have only…let’s say six or seven hours before I’m down to the level of a Jade. That will be a novel experience.”

  Lindon thought he saw the problem. Since she merged with her Blood Shadow, Yerin’s body had partially fused with her spirit. Draining her madra would affect her physically even more than the rest of them.

  “You can stay on Windfall,” Lindon suggested. It would be better anyway, he realized. She wouldn’t have to relive the trauma of losing her master by revisiting the site of his death, and she would still get to meet his family when he brought them out.

  It made sense, but leaving her behind felt wrong. She had started this journey with him, and she should be with him to see it end.

  He didn’t expect her to agree. In fact, he expected her to leap out of his grasp and plunge straight into the Valley, heedless of the consequences.

  Instead, she stayed where she was and turned to Eithan. “Am I going to fall apart if I head back in there?”

  It was Ziel who answered. “Do Remnants form in there?”

  “They do,” Lindon confirmed.

  “Then you’ll survive. No matter how close to a spirit you are, you’ll still be more solid than a Remnant.” He pointed to Little Blue, who was leaning over Lindon’s shoulder to regard Yerin with concern. “If she doesn’t fall apart, you definitely won’t. But…”

  He let the silence stretch out until Lindon wondered whether he was thinking of the right words to say or if he was waiting for someone to ask a question.

  “…a stable Herald wouldn’t be affected as much as you are. Don’t know if it’s because you didn’t hit Archlord first, or...”

  He slumped in place, as though speaking so much had exhausted him. Eithan swept a hand toward him. “I concur with the champion of the Wastelands. This suppression field has revealed an imbalance in your body and spirit. I could speculate as to why, but it hardly matters now.”

  “S
o I’m not falling apart,” Yerin said.

  “You will not. In fact, I suspect you won’t get any worse than you are now. Barring grievous injury, of course.”

  Yerin met Lindon’s gaze. “My master dove into this with eyes open.”

  Lindon nodded and started to carry her back in. The second she weakened too much, he would leap free of the field again.

  She cleared her throat. “Still got two feet.”

  Reluctantly, he lowered her down, although he supposed there wasn’t much risk in her walking under her own power. Even an ordinary Overlady wouldn’t be killed by falling flat on her face.

  She squared herself and clutched her sword as she crossed the boundary, and her stride faltered almost immediately. Lindon reached for her, but she stopped him, taking a few deeper breaths to steady her spirit.

  “Shaky as a two-day calf,” she reported, “but on the sunny side, at least it won’t get worse.”

  If Lindon’s spirit felt as though it had sprung a leak, hers lost power like a shattered wine bottle. In less than a minute, she felt as weak to his perception as a Lowgold.

  Lindon couldn’t make himself comfortable with that.

  “If we end up in a fight…” He trailed off. He didn’t want to remind Yerin of her master’s death, but on the other hand, the Sword Sage must have knowingly weakened himself by walking into this boundary field. He had risked his life and died for it.

  And now they were repeating the same mistake.

  Yerin raised her voice, addressing everyone. “I’ll break easier than a glass egg in there. I’m aiming to head in anyway, but I know that’s a rotten deal for you. Anybody wants me to stay here, I’ll do it.”

  She sounded completely sincere, which once again surprised him a little. Part of him had expected her to insist that she could protect herself, no matter how weakened she became.

  But that’s what she would have done when she was here before. It had been a long time since then. She had seen and done more in the last few years than many sacred artists did in their entire lifetimes. She had grown.

  Like he had.

  “Of course we’ll take care of you!” Mercy exclaimed. She sounded slightly offended.