The copy did very little to quiet the whispers, the constant urge to push a tiny fraction of the world toward ruin. But Jerri was sixteen; more than old enough to handle a little insanity.
She fed a little more of her power into the fire, to keep her Vessel content, as she waited for the Sleepless cabal to stop deliberating.
“He could be an asset,” the flame finally said. “But it is not our decision. We must consult the Great Ones.”
At even an indirect mention of a Great Elder, the voice of the transmission quivered.
“Oh, did I not mention?” Jerri had been saving her best card for last. “He has the approval of Kelarac.”
The fire dimmed to a green spark, the crystal in the walls flared with light reflected from some other place, and a thousand unseen messengers whispered at once.
“Kell’arrack.”
“The Collector of Souls.”
“Great One.”
“Blinded and bound.”
“Great One…”
Jerri waited, projecting a nonchalance she didn’t feel, keeping a tight grip on her Soulbound power. She fiddled with her braid as the cabal struggled to regain control of the void transmission.
“He made a bargain to escape Candle Bay,” she went on, when the voices went silent. “Kelarac provided the Lyathatan as our guide. If he trusts Calder, why should we not?”
“The situation is changed,” croaked the bullfrog-voice from the fire. “The will of Kelarac is paramount. If the former Blackwatch has a connection to the Great Ones, he could be our greatest step forward in an instant—” The voice layered over itself, as though correcting itself while speaking. “—a moment—” It stuttered again.
“—a year—”
“—an age—”
“—a day—”
“—a century.”
Elderspawn messengers often had trouble translating time.
“May I introduce him to the Sleepless?” Jerri asked, fluttering with fear. More than anything, she wanted to tell Calder everything and have him approve. Approve, and join her in unlocking the secret wisdom of the Elders. But when she imagined his reaction, she could only picture his horror and disgust.
So she would make sure he understood, and then she would tell him the truth.
“We must proceed carefully,” the voice said. “Our old enemy is still in control of himself, and we cannot afford his interference” Jerri was sure they meant the Emperor. “We must seek guidance.”
“From whom?” Jerri asked, though she assumed they would seek communion with Kelarac. Hopefully, the Great Elder would support her endorsement of Calder.
“Our other patron,” said the fire, and again a thousand whispers joined in. They were joyful, this time, instead of hostile and competing.
“The Overseer.”
“He who knows all.”
“Sees all.”
“The Father of Knowledge.”
“Ach’magut.”
The Sleepless respected the supernatural wisdom of all the Elders, but two Great Elders were revered above the rest. Kelarac, for his willingness to help and support humanity, was considered by many in the Sleepless to be their best hope for human and non-human interaction.
But a close second was Ach’magut, the Overseer.
The Lord of a Thousand Eyes sought knowledge above everything, at any cost. It was said that the Emperor learned Reading in the halls of Ach’magut, and that the birth of human civilization could be traced back to this one Elder. More importantly, his goals did not involve the malicious destruction of humankind, as Nakothi or Urg’naut would desire. He simply wanted to learn everything, and then to move on. Whether humans survived or not was irrelevant.
Which made him a great resource, but not an ally.
There was only one problem. “Kelarac is still free to act,” Jerri said. “Ach’magut is dead.”
“As you should know,” croaked the green flame, “that is only a minor inconvenience.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Emperor destroyed my home today, and he never left his palace. Am I the only one who wonders how?
From the wreckage of The Eternal, screams echoed over the water. Piercing, agonized screams, like those of a dying horse. The sea was littered with debris, and dark shapes fell over the side as at least a few of the crew escaped certain death.
But the screams continued. Too loud for a single human.
Calder saw the jeweled gleam of a thousand feathers scattered on the waves before he figured it out: General Teach’s personal Kameira, the near-mythical Windwatcher, had been aboard that ship. And now it was dying.
Behind him, boots slammed against the board and Andel shouted orders, but Calder didn’t listen. He didn’t need to. Whether he controlled his body or not, as long as he was conscious, he could move his ship.
He left the pain of his wounds behind, shut out the death-screams of the Windwatcher, and ignored the debates of his crew. Once again, he sent his Intent down to the Lyathatan.
Save them, he ordered, focusing his will into a specific picture: the Elder cradling the remains of Cheska Bennett’s ship in its clawed hands.
The Lyathatan’s amusement hasn’t faded, and laughter rekindles as the human gives it an order. The human is still immobile, and likely to die. If the human is killed so early, Kelarac will consider the Lyathatan’s service finished, and all plans will advance. The stars wheel, the earth turns, and humans die. It is the way of the universe, and the Lyathatan looks forward to it, as much as it looks forward to anything.
As the Reading broke, Calder had to throttle his frustration and impatience. The Elder would sense those, and they would weaken his bargaining position. What could he offer the Lyathatan that would tempt it to help? How could he save those people?
A figure in black-and-red armor staggered onto the slanted deck, marching up the incline as though pushing against the force of a hurricane. General Teach. She had someone thrown over her shoulder, someone in mismatched clothes whose long, red hair spilled over the General’s back. Cheska Bennett.
Teach slipped, falling onto her armored chest, one arm thrown out to grip the deck. Somehow she found a handhold, and she was barely able to keep Cheska from falling further, from plunging into the Aion Sea.
Calder owed Jarelys Teach nothing, but Cheska…Cheska had been his Guild Head for many years, and his friend for more than a few. He couldn’t lose another friend, not so soon, not when he was so close. He wouldn’t.
The six-fingered handprint on his arm grew warm.
This time, when Calder returned his Intent to the Lyathatan, he carried with him something older. His voice carried the echo of a Great Elder, and the lesser spawn had to stand aside.
Save them, he ordered, and the Lyathatan shook with an emotion even stranger than amusement: shock. It was still not a perfect approximation of the emotion, like something mimicking human feelings that didn’t quite understand them, but it was shock nonetheless.