The Ember Blade (The Darkwater Legacy, #1)

by Chris Wooding

A temple loomed suddenly from the trees, towering before them. The sight of it brought them to a halt. Its walls had been breached by the forest and a mossy cupola lay in ruins near the entrance. Balconied domes and soaring vaults had been gnawed bare by time’s appetite, yet still it stood in testament to its makers, an elegant masterpiece from a lost world.

he became conscious of Cade eyeing him awkwardly. ‘You alright?’ Cade asked. Aren bit back a sharp reply. He wanted to take out his feelings on someone and Cade was an easy target; but it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. ‘I think I’ll just head home,’ he said. Without further words of parting, he walked away. Bravery loved company, but Aren had long ago learned that shame was best borne alone.

Perhaps Prince Ottico is meant to rule?’ ‘Ha!’ Randill’s laugh was humourless. ‘If the Nine really guide its destiny, I doubt they’d place it in Krodan hands. Not while the Sanctorum starves their temples of funds, arrests their druids, makes mock of their teachings and all but outlaws them entirely.’ ‘Father …’ Aren warned. This was getting too close to sedition. Randill held up a hand in apology. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I suppose the old gods are no easier to cast aside than the Ember Blade was, much as we might try. We learn the world in our youth and believe that is how things are. To unlearn it … Well, I wonder if we ever really do. And, sometimes, if we should.’

‘I never told you how proud I was of you that day,’ he said. ‘I don’t tell you enough. You’re all that is good in me, all I have left of your mother. Whenever I think of the choices I’ve made, the things I’ve done, I think of you, and I know I took the right path. For had I done otherwise, I would not have such a very fine son.’

Cade reminded him that the heroes in his stories were always stealing swords, or magic rings, or maidens, and they were still counted as heroes. That made Aren feel better. Sometimes it was necessary to do something ignoble in pursuit of a noble goal.

‘To overcome your enemy, you must first understand him.’ Master Orik’s favourite maxim. It was time to put his teachings into effect.

There is no victory without sacrifice. He’d said that to Master Fassen once, before he really knew what sacrifice was. Perhaps he still didn’t, not really. But one day he was certain he would.

Let each dawn find you different. Agalie used to say that, back when Vika was just an acolyte. Every day, a person should learn something, experience something, do something that left them changed, even in a small way. Agalie would be proud of her today.

He set off across the yard. Aren stared at him hollowly as he approached. ‘I had to do it,’ Aren said, as if Garric had asked for an explanation. ‘You think I’m a fool, but you’d have turned away. You’d have left them to die.’ ‘Aye, I would. But you didn’t,’ he said as he walked past. ‘That’s why there’s still hope for you.’ We are none of us responsible for the sins of our fathers, he thought as he went inside. When he was sure nobody could see him, he let a grudging smile cross his lips. And perhaps we’re not doomed to repeat them, either.

The arrival of a black carriage bearing the double-barred cross inspired a skittish uncertainty in the soldiers, guests and stable boys alike. They began to wonder if they’d done anything wrong, examining themselves for sedition. Just as it should be, thought Klyssen, sweeping the stable yard with a narrow gaze. He wanted to stretch, to relieve his aching muscles after the journey, but he resisted the urge. He was the authority here, and authority didn’t ache, or tire, or become irritated or impatient. Authority was inhuman and perfect.

‘I know it is hard for you,’ Vika said. ‘You do not know whether to hate or admire him. But a person can be many things. There is good in the worst of us, and bad in the best. Garric has treated you despicably and he is your father’s sworn enemy, yet he may be the man we need to lead us against what is to come.’ ‘He’s no champion,’ Aren said angrily. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Are you?’

The young are always in a rush to know everything, but knowledge only brings more questions. Forget the destination, Aren; enjoy the journey. You are free now in a way you have never been, and the choices you make now will determine who you are to become.’

Garric and Keel came striding over. Harod was breathlessly apologising to Orica for not being there earlier. Between them they’d killed nine. ‘There’s more coming up from the docks,’ Garric told them. ‘Keep moving.’ ‘Where to?’ asked Aren. ‘Jadrell’s got a launch in his boathouse, small enough for us to sail.’ He surveyed the junction, the dead there. Then he gave Aren a rough slap on the arm. ‘You fought well,’ he said. Aren felt a flush of pride at his words, and a grateful smile jumped onto his face. Then he remembered who he was talking to and wiped it off, angry at himself. You do not know whether to hate or admire him, Vika had said. But couldn’t he do both?

‘I told you we’d seize the Ember Blade for ourselves, and I told you I’d explain the plan when we got to Morgenholme!’ Garric said bullishly. ‘Would you have followed me elsewise? Keel? Fen? Or would you now be wandering the land, watching forlornly as the Krodans crush the last of the spirit from your countrymen?’ Aren’s gaze went to the castles board set up by the empty hearth, and he heard Master Fassen’s voice in his mind. Never let your opponent see you uncertain. Behave as if you have a strategy, even when you do not. Act as if your opponent’s every move is playing further into your hands.

‘Then what are we to do?’ Aren cried, frustrated. ‘What’s our purpose here, if you already have all you need?’ Garric rounded on him. ‘Do you think it all ends with Ottico’s wedding, boy?’ he snarled. ‘Do you imagine the Krodans will leave once we’ve taken the Ember Blade? If I succeed, it will be the beginning. All of you will be needed, and many more besides, if we are to carry the flame forward. Do not be so hungry to rush into danger. It will find you soon enough.’

Aren shrugged. ‘What’s history but a series of lessons we didn’t learn?’

He wanted throw himself at Harte, knock him down, strangle him with his bare hands.

Typo: missing ‘to’

‘The wheels of change are greased with blood,’ said Wilham. ‘You know it, as do I. Always surprises me how many think they can win their freedom without doing anything unpleasant.’

Aren snorted. That small defiance gave him courage. ‘You don’t believe me,’ Klyssen said. ‘Well, we were all young once, idealistic and naïve. We all thought we could change the world. But civilisation is a structure too massive and rigid to be altered. You may knock down a pillar here and there, but new ones will replace them. You may repaint the façade, but what lies beneath remains the same. Attacking it is futile. You may as well attack a mountain.’ He took off his spectacles and polished them with the sleeve of his coat. ‘It’s time to grow up. Time you learned to deal with the way things are, not the way you wish them to be.’

‘They might have been delayed,’ said Aren, with forced optimism. ‘Chased off by a patrol. Maybe they’re lying low till it’s safe.’ Grub snorted sceptically. ‘And maybe Grub have the gateway to a magic kingdom hidden in the crack of his arse.’

Haha. Grub.

They shoved once more, and this time the gate screeched open, suddenly enough that Vika had to grab Cade to stop him falling in. ‘Yes! Grub knew he’d get through! He is unstoppable!’ the Skarl cried. They laughed and Aren grinned at the sight, ashamed of his doubts. Who says Ossians can’t work together? Vika caught his eye. ‘How much sweeter the victory when it is shared, hmm?’ she said quietly. He smiled at her. ‘I’m really glad you’re back, Vika.’

Every significant moment in her past was linked to a song. Her earliest memory was her mother humming a lullaby while Orica sat in her lap, drowsy in the warmth of a fire. She remembered the tumbling drums of Llach Na Thuun playing nearby as she and her first love lost themselves in a twist of blankets beneath an ash tree. The delicate arpeggios of a Trinish lament healed her heart after the same boy rejected her, for nobody told tales of heroic sorrow like the bards of Trine. Then there was the song that was played when her mother remarried; and the one that so impressed her master he said he had no more to teach her; and the song that made Harod fall in love with her. Music surrounded her, shaped her, underpinned her world. When she played, she tuned herself to the key of Creation.

Orica the bard

She loved him a little for that, for making her believe. There was something indomitable in him which wouldn’t lie and down and die.

Typo.

‘Five times I was visited by the gods,’ Vika had said. ‘Five times, and then no more. Can you imagine that? To be so blessed and then … not to be?’ ‘I have never seen them,’ said Agalie. ‘Only their signs and agents. Be grateful for what grace was given you. We are each tested in our own way.’ She heard the rank ingratitude in her words, to complain that she’d only been visited five times by the Aspects, when Agalie kept iron faith on much slimmer evidence. We are each tested in our own way. ‘If the Aspects are silent,’ Agalie had said, ‘it is because we have forgotten how to listen.’

‘Some will say the last Dawnwarden died tonight,’ he said. ‘But we will make liars of them. For though we hail from different lands and different stations in life, though we believe in different gods or none at all, tonight we reclaimed that which the Dawnwardens lost. Tonight, we earned the right to take on their mantle.’ He raked them all with his gaze, his face alive with conviction. ‘We are the Dawnwardens now!’

Aren shouldered his pack and took one last look around the meadow, where the risen sun had turned the waving reeds to gold. ‘Then show us the way, Fen,’ he said. ‘We’ve work to do.’