Chapter Three
Wrapped warmly in a great white-wolf fur coat, Faerl knelt on the cold stone at Baeta’s feet. Encased in ice and stone within the Creation Hall, his former lover loomed over him, her pale beauty forever entombed within the mountain. Water trickled over her fair skin as though she constantly wept, either in anguish over what she’d done or from regret, having not been able to exact her revenge upon the men who’d stolen her beauty. Yet Faerl had not come to pay homage, nor lament her betrayal or his loss. That morning, he had succumbed to the myriad connections radiating from Baeta’s soul and sent his first tentative message into the Weave.
At first, it was an unyielding cacophony. Forced to push his way through, he fought to decipher individual threads. Connections to cities far away felt like tangled knots of great ropes binding vast ships to the dock, yet the closer he got, the threads unravelled, until upon each one he felt the lives and desires of all within the city’s walls.
His first attempt was to reach the mind of someone close. Feeling the pull of Sira’an, he let his mind drift until it became accustomed to what the Weave revealed. He could not enter the minds of those he felt, there was simply an awareness of presence, yet he knew that with any bond, a connection was always felt at both ends.
Finding Sattah amid a hundred thousand other voices took all his concentration, the subtleties delicate to tread. He felt whispers, thoughts of the usurper of Sira’an’s presence. From those whispers he sought stronger connections, bonds that signalled he had recently been in that person’s presence. He felt himself shift into the Qhabir’s palace, the minds of guards, servants and whores drifting innocently by, unaware they were being used to hunt their leader down. For a long time, he felt himself travel in circles, for he was in the company of those who had no key to his inner chambers, until at last, he felt the presence of a young boy, eager in his desire to become a great leader of Sira’an, admired by a station of power and influence, yet he yearned for more. Sattah’s soul was strong within this boy’s intent, so Faerl drifted with him, until finally he felt Sattah’s presence take shape. Dawn was yet to break, and Sattah was found still sleeping in his bed.
There, Faerl found Sattah easier to pervade. His mind lay open, unaware of what whispers Faerl left behind. Faerl felt that Sattah already expected Kha’atib’s inevitable betrayal. Whispers of this would leave no lasting impression to influence Sattah’s day, but Faerl believed the idea that Na’ilah had survived, that Sattah’s bond with Nazh-rndu’ul now lay in her hands, would burn into his soul. As vividly as he could, he sent images into Sattah’s dreams. Visions of Na’ilah standing over Sama’ad. Control of the island within her grasp. Once he’d inlaid what he’d already seen, he pushed beyond, instilling the idea of the Kjatmi’ir rising by her side, crushing those within Johsala. Both Kha’atib and Veikko stood beside her, two men that Sattah believed he could control now totally beyond his reach. Yet it was not enough to simply give Sattah visions. He would wake and brush them off as a paranoid dream. Faerl needed something tangible. He reached out just as the young boy he’d followed withdrew the sheets to wake his Qhabir. Sensing the cold of the Meil’vohllen, Faerl inlaid a vision of himself, standing within the vortex of water that had once protected Imad al-Din’s stone. Faerl filled Sattah’s dream with his own piercing gaze. He reached out across the Weave’s delicate tendrils and gripped Sattah’s arm.
“They have betrayed you,” he called out as Sattah screamed out in pain. Faerl’s grip burned into his arm, the cold of the Meil’vohllen searing his skin, yet Faerl did not let go. “The Kjatmi’ir rise. You are defeated at sea. Protect Johsala but remember. Your enemy comes not from the east.”
Sattah woke, screaming.
“Qhabir? What is it?” Eymen cried out, shocked as he looked to wake his master, yet Sattah could not answer. The sensation of death and betrayal pervaded his waking mind. Fear filled him. He cowered from the blue firelight Eymen carried, as though the heart of the Meil’vohllen had come to claim his soul, then he looked at his arm, stung red by Faerl’s touch.
“He was here,” Sattah whispered, then struggled to remember what he’d been shown.
“She’s alive. The Daughter of al-Din is alive.”
“It was a dream,” Eymen said reassuringly as he opened a leather-bound satchel of reports. “Sama’ad has claimed her. What reason would he have to let her live?”
Yet the vision of Sama’ad lying broken at Na’ilah’s feet almost caused Sattah to retch. He had to uncover the truth. If what he saw was true, Johsala would soon be under attack. Sattah needed to uncover just how far Kha’atib would look to betray him, and from where the true enemy would come.
In the far reaches of the northern desert, beyond the faded power of the Valley of the Dead, the great gathering of the Uradji army was almost complete. Flags of all colours fluttered in the gentle breeze. Dawn held its breath as Adham strode amongst his soldiers, tens of thousands strong. Warriors had come from a hundred villages, their faces hidden behind veils, their menacing eyes lined black and filled with revenge. They would be the wind that swept the desert clean, Adham thought, but as dawn’s blood broke the eastern horizon, Adham turned to the haze gathering from the west.
A lone figure approached. In the haze it was impossible to see who, all that was visible were the flowing, black desert robes.
Wahid.
The voice was but a whisper carried upon the wind, but its weight grew around Adham as the figure drew close. Fearful, Adham drew his sword. At the gesture, his entire army rose, yet the figure did not stop. He simply continued coming closer, then unclipped his veil.
“Ohrl?”
Adham was shocked. The bearer of al-Din’s mind looked covered in blood. A cry arose from the men gathered behind him.
“Uradji! Uradji!”
Adham turned to stay his men, believing they longed for Ohrl’s return and their chance to lay siege to the lower Flatlands, yet against the roar of the rising sun, he saw his entire army laid to waste. Screams of agony and death permeated clammy air as the entire red desert seemed soaked in their blood. Then, to his horror, the dead began to rise, the silhouette of their decayed flesh on fire against the enormous rising sun.
“It is time,” Ohrl said from behind him, and Adham turned to see the inscriptions writhing beneath Ohrl’s skin.
“Seif al-Din?”
Ohrl gripped his arm. “Gather your men. I will soon come.”
The roar of al-Din’s undead army filled Adham’s mind. Unable to contend with Ohrl, he turned to see the fate of his men just as the dawn sun lifted from the horizon. In that moment, as heat gathered and dawn’s blood spread in the rippling haze, all sound disappeared, and Adham realised he stood alone, staring out across an empty horizon, unaware that Faerl had released him from the Weave.
The effort of reaching Adham left Faerl barely able to stand. His mind felt stretched, as though part of him remained in the east.
Seif al-Din. The name was unfamiliar, though he was aware it was connected to the inscriptions upon Ohrl’s skin. Faerl had seen them before. On the Guardians within Husam’s tomb beneath Johsala, and the wraiths protecting the burial ground where Nasir had hidden his stone of al-Din. Each bearer had a measure of control over the dead, though Faerl was sure that’s not where his brother’s power lay. Unsure of what it meant, he almost didn’t hear the padded footsteps approaching upon the cold stone floor.
“It’s time,” he heard Jaasko say. “The Brotherhood… what’s left of them, anyway, await you in the library.”
Faerl turned and looked upon the man he’d once thought to kill. Jaasko had proven his remorse and dedication a dozen times over, yet his gaze still avoided Baeta, who remained encased in the wall behind Faerl.
“How’s their mood?”
Jaasko shuffled a nervous step closer.
“Angry. Lost. Confused. For most, you took away the only thing they knew.”
“And yet all this time, they knew nothing.”
Faerl caught Jaasko’s sharp look.
“Sorry. It’s a shock to you all. But they’ve played their part. They should leave happy to be alive.”
He stepped close to Jaasko and placed a friendly hand upon his shoulder. Together, they looked at the vast emptiness of the Creation Hall.
“You were the only one to even begin to glimpse what this place really was,” Faerl said. “You would have made a revered Guardian, perhaps even Leader of the Brotherhood one day.”
Jaasko smiled. “I would rather be a wanderer with a purpose than a leader of aimless men. I am one of the few that realise just how much you have set us free, but there are many others you are yet to convince.”
Jaasko gripped Faerl’s arm then turned for the door.
“Come when you are ready, but don’t expect the great hall to have warmed.”
Faerl remained quiet as Jaasko left the hall, then turned to look upon Baeta one last time. She was as beautiful as the day he first saw her, resplendent in the light of the Floating Inn. Encased in ice, her pale face radiated light, her skin unblemished for all eternity. He felt sorry for her, for even though she looked to betray him, her life had been a lie, all orchestrated by her saviour and friend. Remembering the woman he once loved, Faerl set his back to Baeta, and left her alone in the dark.
It had almost been a week since Faerl had severed the Brotherhood from Imad al-Din’s power. Jökull’s men had set watch over him, just in case any decided to retaliate and cause Faerl harm, but most of the Brotherhood were simply in a state of shock. Knowing the power over stone that Faerl now had, no one dared approach. Faerl’s only communication with them had been facilitated through Jaasko, Sakkari or Jökull. Even Veikko had not bothered to approach. It had not concerned Faerl at all, for he had been far too embedded within Imad’s weave trying to decide his next move.
As Faerl approached the great library doors, he could feel the Weave emanate throughout the mountain. Though Baeta guarded its source, he felt its current flow through the Meil’vohllen, the watery chasms acting like blood through veins. With gloved hands, he pushed the doors aside, and was met by gaunt, pale faces as each Brotherhood member turned at the sudden intrusion.
“It’s about time,” Jökull growled, greeting him first with a gripped arm. “They’re impatient to leave. Without Imad’s power, even the plants in the food halls are starting to fade.”
Faerl nodded his appreciation, pushing past the Thieves’ Guild leader to face the former Brotherhood men. The five remaining red-clad Guardians stood before him, and Faerl noted that Hannes and Veikko remained with their backs turned, huddled in private conversation. Jaasko stood close by, the most likely candidate to have taken Kyosti’s place, but it was Valtteri who broke the silence, shuffling through the crowd to stand beside the lifeless Gathering Stone.
“Most of us have spent our entire lives dedicated to these halls,” the former Keeper of the Library said. “We’ve known nothing else. You may have taken our connection to the Weave, but once we return to the world, I fear we’ll begin to understand what we lost when we abandoned our former lives.”
“Perhaps it is a chance to reconnect,” Faerl said for Valtteri alone, then he turned to face all those before him.
“You have been given a second chance. One not afforded to those Imad claimed when protecting his Stone of al-Din. I understand Jökull has offered some of you positions within his ranks.”
He saw a few faces nod. The others looked on, some in wonder at what it would be like to become part of the Thieves’ Guild, others in disgust at joining the oppressive force that helped Faerl claim the Brotherhood throne.
“Though you no longer have a connection to the Weave, there is still much to be done to prevent the Kjatmi’ir from rise. If you join Jökull, you will still have purpose. You’d have to find your own way within the world, but knowing what you know, having seen the rise of those who seek al-Din’s power, you’ll be well positioned to guide those who need your help.”
“And who does Jökull, leader of the Thieves’ Guild, look to for guidance?” Veikko called out, finally turning. “Does he go back to stealing for his own riches? Does he cower before Faerl, who has now claimed both our power and our halls? Or does he look to honour his trade with Sama’ad, for was that not the price you paid for finding the Daughters of Nazh-rndu’ul?”
Faerl glanced at Jökull, who seemed confused.
“I have no connection to Sama’ad,” he said, but Faerl noted his eyes glaze over, as though searching for a memory he had no idea was lost. For Jökull, all knowledge of the White Priests was gone.
“For those travelling beyond Ásgierr, return to your homes,” Faerl called out, reclaiming the hall. “Find those you once loved. Families. Parents. If there are those alive who know you were claimed, there may be a chance of them understanding why you have gone.”
He glanced toward Jaasko but did not catch his eye. Faerl knew this was what Jaasko desired, but there was more that Faerl required.
“For the rest of you, I offer no advice save to follow your heart,” Faerl continued. “You were the seekers of truth. That is a power no one can claim. Do not let it fade.”
Faerl faced Veikko, knowing others still considered him their leader.
“What will you do?”
The great hall fell silent, but Veikko stepped close, clearly not intending to announce his plans to the world.
“Your days of meddling in my affairs are over,” Veikko scowled. “Where I go is no concern of yours.”
Veikko pushed past Faerl, with Hannes close behind.
“I’d be wary of them if I were you,” Jökull whispered as the two men left the hall.
“Veikko is bereft of influence and power,” Faerl said. “And we have much larger concerns.”
He looked Jökull in the eye, then motioned toward the hundreds of souls left unsure of what they were to do.
“Bring any belongings you can carry to the entrance tomorrow at dawn,” Jökull called out. “It is a hard day’s march to Station Hut, then another to the Guild. You’ll get a night’s rest, then we make for Ásgierr. Pack only what you need. You will each be given coin for your return. It won’t be much, but it will be enough to set you on your way. Though your existence was frugal, you have lived a sheltered life. The real world is a more dangerous place.”
The next morning, as light blossomed and the sun rose, the Brotherhood gathered at the cave entrance. They looked afraid. Many had never ventured beyond the fortress since the day they’d arrived. Some had forgotten they even had another home. Each carried a large sack strapped to their back, filled with whatever personal belongings they owned. Faerl insisted they take with them their diary stones. Though they held no purpose, he felt it prudent that they should leave nothing of their souls behind.
“I’m tempted to let Veikko wander too far in the snow,” Jökull said, joining Faerl. Faerl laughed, looking over at Veikko and Hannes, still inseparable despite Veikko’s loss of control.
“It will be a true measure of their spirit as to where they go.”
“Speaking of which,” Jökull said, “let me come with you. My men can guide the others to Ásgierr.”
Faerl gripped his friend’s shoulder.
“I am well protected,” he said, then turned to those by his side. Koji and Nuur, the two former slaves stood together. Essam, Tarbuk, Jaasko and Sakkari stood alongside Ljótur. Instead, Faerl reached into this thick, white-wolf robes and lifted out an ornately carved box.
“I need you to take this to Smiorness,” he said quietly to Jökull. “Find a man named Kindahl. He will know my father’s name. I believe there is someone in his care who may have use for what you carry. Remember everything you saw here and in Imad al-Din’s tomb, especially those who became the first Guardians. Tell Kindahl… tell him everything is linked, that the gift you carry may unlock secrets he has been unable to break.”
Jökull looked at the box, aware it contained a Harmonic Stone. As he reluctantly stowed it away, Faerl caught Veikko and Hannes watching them, and he noted Veikko’s concern.
“Say nothing to Veikko of where you’re going, then make for Johsala when you’re done,” Faerl said, quietly drawing Jökull aside. “Once we pass through Sira’an, we’ll make for Dehr’m and the Ji’ruk. Get word to Keysa, whom you’ll find at the Floating Inn within Brúnn. Tell her what’s become of Ohrl, then find Sword Master Yngve. She knows Ohrl well. Do whatever you can to bring her with you. I fear she may be needed in what’s to come.”
Jökull nodded, then the two embraced. Faerl was unsure if he’d see Jökull again, but he trusted no other with the stone he carried.
“Fall in,” Jökull then yelled over the wind, stepping away to address the Brotherhood, who stood helpless beyond the cave. “Make sure your boots are tight, your cloaks are wrapped and your backpacks tied. We stop for no one. You want to survive? Don’t fall behind.”
Faerl hid a wry smile as Jökull and his men ushered the Brotherhood forward. When they became lost in the snowy haze, Faerl felt the weight of inevitability as Ljótur stood by his side.
“ Are you ready?”
Faerl turned to address those coming with him, but in their faces he saw determination, not fear. He had warned them of what they would face on the road ahead. Sattah. The Uradji. Wahid and the Third Ring. Each looked focused, but he knew each had a reason to return to Sira’an and the desert beyond. Koji looked to reclaim his daughter. Essam sought to find Ha’amturah, to reunite with his old friend. In Tarbuk he saw apprehension of returning to Sira’an, but he knew the boy longed to see his uncle Sadri once more. It was Jaasko and Sakkari who showed the gravest concern, but Faerl had assured them that he needed them most of all, for he had come to trust their minds. They would not be swayed by ill intent. They would seek the truth and guide him when required. Acknowledging he was ready to leave, he nodded for Ljótur to lead the way. They turned and re-entered the Brotherhood fortress, for their path led beneath the Meil’vohllen, across the Grimr Pass and secretly into Sira’an.