Spire of Shadows Read online

  Spire of Shadows

  Published by Jade Fantasy

  Copyright © 2020 Sarah Hawke

  Cover Art by Tony Tzanoukakis

  Edited by Sean L.

  Maps created with Inkarnate software

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved.

  The Duchy of Torisval

  The Kingdom of Darenthi

  Dedication

  I want to offer a special thanks to all my wonderful supporters on Patreon, especially Alan, David, Dwight, Eidolon, Joseph, Tom, Timothy, Commissar, Michael B. Michael M,, Joe, Dumblindeaf, Manoxis, Sean, and Noah.

  Double mega thanks to my super patrons Alcofribas, Billy, Lamar, and Paul. Without your support, none of this would be possible.

  Newsletter

  Sarah finally has a newsletter! Make sure you never miss a new release by signing up at:

  www.sarahhawke.com/newsletter

  Prologue

  Edmund Kraythe, Lord Protector of the Templar Order and Voice of the Guardian, pulled back on the reins of his armored griffon as he approached his destination. Just ahead of him, the massive tower called the Galespire loomed over the frozen wastelands of the Jagged Coast like a giant spear plunged into the world by an angry god. The plains surrounding the base of the ancient structure were as stark and unblemished as a still white sea, and a blazing blue beacon shone from the top as if it were from a lighthouse warning away all who dared approach.

  Almost one in a hundred Darenthi children were born with a connection to the Aether, and those that survived long enough to be discovered by the Keepers ended up here. The ancient elves who had built the Galespire—the fabled Wyrm Lords of the long dead Avethian Empire—had never intended for it to shelter so many wayward souls. The tharns who ruled Darenthi expected the Lord Vigilant to police fifteen thousand sorcerers of all ages with a few hundred Keepers, just like they expected Kraythe himself to hold back the Chol with a few hundred Templar. The greed and hubris of the nobility were truly boundless; they foisted their troubles onto the Tel Bator as if the Voices were their servants, not the spiritual conduits to the gods.

  But that era was about to come to an end. Soon.

  Kraythe steered his griffon toward the aviary near the top of the spire. The bitter wind cut through his cloak and brigandine like a wraithblade, but the Guardian’s grace kept his body warm and his mind focused. The handlers flagged him into one of the open roosts, and he set his majestic beast down with practiced ease. The young men and women were instantly cowed by his presence—Templar rarely visited the Galespire, and the Lord Protector himself hadn’t been here in over a year—but Kraythe soothed their fears with kind words and warm slaps on the back.

  They were all Tel Bator, after all, from the lowliest stable hand to the mightiest Templar. They had dedicated their lives to the service of the Triumvirate, and their faith was about to call them to action—not merely in a glorious battle against the Chol, but in a holy war to save the very souls of the Darenthi people.

  Once his griffon was secured, Kraythe started down the winding stairs into the heart of the tower. The halls of the so-called “Spire of Shadows” had always felt different than those in Griffonwing or Palegarde or any of the kingdom’s other castles. Back when he had been a young man on his first visit, he had been amazed by the wonders of Avetharri architecture, from the high, arching ceilings to the suffocatingly narrow stairwells to the immaculate white marble walls and floors. Today he was mostly struck by just how overcrowded the tower had become. He could feel the collective power of the sorcerers gathered in this spire, and he knew in his heart how perilously close they were to the chaos of another Sevenfold Rebellion.

  Now, more than ever, the Tel Bator needed strong leadership. And that was what the Guardian had sent him here to provide.

  The giant steel door leading into the Lord Vigilant’s personal quarters was blocked by two Keepers clad in pristine silver plate mail, though both men bowed at the Lord Protector’s approach. They wordlessly opened the door and stood aside, revealing the cavernous chamber on the other side. A hundred men could have comfortably lived within—or one Avetharri Wyrm Lord slumbering in dragon form.

  “Edmund, thank the gods,” Caelan Arinthal, Lord Vigilant of the Keepers, said in his gruff, raspy voice. He was half buried behind a pile of letters on his desk, and he rose and rushed forward to greet his old friend. “When the ravens brought me your letter this morning, I prayed to the Watcher it was a forgery.”

  “I’m afraid not, old friend,” Kraythe said, waiting for the door to shut behind him. “Thedric is gone, and if we’re not careful, the Pact and its army will die with him.”

  Arinthal briefly closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into his forehead. The man already looked like he had aged ten years since the end of the civil war; the ring of hair surrounding his bald scalp had turned completely gray, and his olive skin was as leathery as his brigandine.

  “Guardian protect us,” he whispered. “How could this happen? How could the monsters have attacked in such numbers without anyone spotting them?”

  Kraythe let out a long, slow breath and shook his head. “I wish I knew. They were upon us so quickly…it was like Gareth’s Stand all over again.”

  The Lord Vigilant hissed softly through his teeth. “Do you think they were after the Whitefeather girl?”

  “I don’t know, but that is what everyone from Torisval to Arduon will believe regardless.”

  “I warned Thedric about her,” Arinthal growled in disgust. “I told him he should keep her here under observation. But all he could see was a pretty face and a pair of tits.”

  “I doubt we’ll ever know what truly happened,” Kraythe said, “but the one thing I’m certain of is that we need to act—now. Once the news of the slaughter reaches the capital, the tharns will panic. They will recall their armies and demand I send every Templar in Darenthi to the front lines.”

  “Isn’t that your plan?” Arinthal asked. “If a true Culling is upon us, no one else can—”

  “My men will be ready to fight, don’t worry,” Kraythe assured him. “But we’re still too few in number to confront the horde directly. We’re going to need the Pact Army—and as many other men as the duchies can spare.”

  The Lord Vigilant nodded. “That won’t be easy. The jackals will be out in full force to fight for the throne. Without Thedric, the line of succession is broken. Darenthi has no king.”

  “Darenthi doesn’t need a king. It has us, old friend.”

  Arinthal cocked a gray eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that the Tel Bator have been pushed aside for far too long,” Kraythe said pointedly. “We speak for the Triumvirate—we are the Voices of the gods in the mortal realm. And where we lead, the faithful will follow.”

  The Lord Vigilant paused for a moment as if he couldn’t decide if Kraythe was serious. Arinthal turned and paced toward the sprawling study to his left, his footfalls echoing throughout the vast chamber. Just like the last time he had been here, Kraythe couldn’t help but be appalled at the decadence of his comrade’s quarters. Elvish furniture from Nelu’Thalas, imported rugs from Solaria, smuggled silk sheets from Talisham…even the High King’s chambers in Silver Falls weren’t this luxurious.

  I can’t believe how long I ignored the truth. The other Voices are every bit as corrupt as the dukes and tharns they revile. It must change—it will change.

  “I know how much you loathe politics, Edmund, but we cannot afford to disregard the realities of the court,” Arinthal said after a moment, turning back to face him. “The war is barely three years ended, and many of the sc
ars haven’t even begun to heal. Thedric’s death will spread panic like wildfire.”

  “Which is precisely why the Tel Bator must offer the people strong, unified leadership,” Kraythe said. “They need to see all three Voices working together to swiftly deal with this threat. My Templar will be on the front lines, but we cannot win this battle alone. We need your help.”

  Arinthal grunted. “You know as well as I do that I barely have enough Keepers to police the Spire, and I can’t exactly muster an army of sorcerers to fight the Chol. The Wailing will—”

  “I don’t need sorcerers, Caelan,” Kraythe interrupted. “I need Faceless.”

  The Lord Vigilant’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “You just said that you have too many channelers and not enough Keepers,” Kraythe said. “The Tel Bator need an army, and only the Galespire can provide us with one powerful and disciplined enough to defeat the Chol.”

  “Edmund, you know that’s impossible,” Arinthal said. “The Sevenfold Accord—”

  “The Accord was a mistake!” Kraythe snarled, and the other man blinked at the venom in his voice. “The first of many made by Thedric’s father, and we are still paying the price for all of them today. You know this, the Lady Seeker knows this—every bloody man and woman in Darenthi with an ounce of sense knows this!”

  The Lord Vigilant sighed and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I understand that you’re upset. Watcher knows I would be, too, if I had just seen the Chol ravage Whitefeather Hold. But the Accord was signed for a good reason. Abolishing the Faceless was a small price to pay for disbanding the Seven. They can no longer whisper into the ears of tharns or stir up support among the populace. Without leadership, the sorcerers have been completely declawed—and it has worked wonders! We’ve had thirty years without a single whisper of rebellion!”

  “And how many Templar have died to maintain that peace?” Kraythe asked pointedly. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. If the king had thrown the Accord into the flames where it belonged, Gareth’s Stand never would have happened. We would have ended the last Culling before it could even begin. The Winter Witch wouldn’t have summoned demons, Duke Haldor wouldn’t have gone mad—by the bloody void, the entire civil war would have been avoided!”

  “What’s done is done,” Arinthal said. “We’ll never know what might have happened, and frankly it doesn’t matter. We live in the here and now, Edmund, and the Accord is still the law of the land.”

  “I will not send my men to their deaths in the defense of useless tharns who care more about their personal holdings than the sanctity of the realm,” Kraythe seethed. “Not until they recognize us for what we are—not until the Tel Bator are given the power and authority we deserve.”

  Arinthal’s face twisted into a scowl as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “It is the sacred duty of the Templar to fight the Chol and stop the Culling.”

  “And it is the duty of the Keepers to protect the realm from dark magic,” Kraythe said. “You’ve told me countless times that you cannot possibly police all the sorcerers the tharns send you. Well, now you don’t have to. The reckless and disobedient can serve Darenthi another way.”

  “We are not barbarians,” Arinthal asked, shaking his head. “The Purging ritual was cast onto the ash heap of history where it belongs!”

  “There was a time when loyal sorcerers considered the ritual a great honor,” Kraythe said. “They willingly offered themselves into the service of Darenthi, and their sacrifice kept this realm safe.”

  “You and I both know it wasn’t long before we ran out of volunteers,” Arinthal scoffed. “The entire reason the Seven rebelled was because the Keepers were forcing their brethren into the armor.”

  Kraythe’s eyes narrowed. “You almost sound like you sympathize with them. Need I remind you that the rebels betrayed Darenthi to the Crell?”

  “Oh, please,” Arinthal huffed. “I don’t approve of what they did, but I do understand it. You and I might have been too young then to truly appreciate what was happening, but age is supposed to make us wiser and more patient.”

  “There is no wisdom in asking loyal servants of the Triumvirate to die on Godcursed steel because you have become old and squeamish.”

  The Lord Vigilant’s face hardened. “What are you saying? You are the Guardian’s Templar! He demands you fight the Chol!”

  “You forget that I am his Voice, and he speaks more clearly through me now than ever before,” Kraythe said, taking a deep breath as he slowly began to pace toward the center of the vast chamber. “A miraculous thing has happened, old friend: the Guardian has granted me a vision of the future!”

  Arinthal stared blankly for a moment. “What?”

  “I know how it sounds, believe me, but it’s true. He showed me the way forward for our people. He showed me how we can defeat the Chol—and how we can save Darenthi from the corruption that has reduced it to a shadow of its former glory. I have seen a future without kings or dukes or tharns…only the faithful standing united against the coming darkness.”

  The Lord Vigilant slowly shook his head. “Edmund, what in the bloody void are you talking about? Have you gone mad?”

  “On the contrary, the Guardian finally has opened my eyes to the truth. We stand on the precipice of new era, not just for Darenthi but the entire world! The civil war, the Cullings, the ascension of a Wyrm Lord in the west…another Reckoning is at hand, old friend. Only the light of the Triumvirate can save us from the coming darkness, but the faithful must stand united against the chaos.”

  “We are united—assuming you order your men to march,” Arinthal said. “What has gotten into you, Edmund?”

  “I told you: the Guardian has shown me the truth. His power shall light the way.”

  Kraythe slowly stepped over to his old friend and gently placed his hand upon the man’s bicep. The Lord Vigilant flinched at first, but then his brows lifted in surprise when he felt the strength of Kraythe’s grip.

  “Your arm,” Arinthal breathed. “But the healers have never been able to…”

  “What the healers could not cure with sorcery, the gods have cured with divinity. The might of the Guardian flows through me. I am his Voice—I am his vessel.”

  The Lord Vigilant’s face drained of color. “Vessel? You mean…?”

  Kraythe smiled and took a step back. He held up the hand of his once-crippled arm, and a blazing sphere of yellow-white energy materialized in his palm. The radiance shone across the entire cavernous chamber as if he were holding a tiny piece of the sun.

  “How…?” Arinthal gasped as he backpedaled farther away. “You are no sorcerer!”

  “No. He is a Conduit to the gods.”

  Both men turned to face the western wall of the chamber as a tall young woman stepped out from a concealed door behind the bookshelves. She was clad in a red-gold tunic and black, thigh-high leggings, and her hands were covered in thin metal gauntlets that turned her fingers into golden claws. The symbol of Shalassa the Moonmaiden—a waxing crescent firing an arrow as if it were a bow—was emblazoned upon the circlet resting atop her long, dyed white hair.

  “Inquisitrix Jessara,” Arinthal said. “How did you get in here?”

  “The Moonmaiden’s light reveals all secrets…and opens all doors,” the young woman replied haughtily as she sauntered forward, the metal heels on her golden shoes clicking loudly on the polished stone floor. “Even the ones you have tried to hide from your Tel Bator brethren.”

  Arinthal’s lip curled, his shock momentarily giving way to contempt. “I don’t care who your father is—you have no right to intrude upon my sanctum!”

  “You forget yourself, Lord Vigilant,” Jessara said. “I am a Sanctori Inquisitrix—the gods themselves have granted me the right to go anywhere I am needed. And right now, they have summoned me here.”

  Arinthal’s eyes flicked between the glowing light in Kraythe’s palm and the Inquisitrix stepping toward him. “What is the me
aning of this?”

  “My father just told you,” Jessara said, finally coming to a halt next to her father. Thanks to her heels, she stood at eye level to both men. “The Triumvirate have chosen him to be their avatar in this dark time. And with their power at his command, the Tel Bator will finally assume our rightful place as the leaders of Darenthi. The Chol, the Crell, even the so-called ‘Dragon of Highwind’—none of them will be able to stand before our might!”

  “This…you’re insane!” Arinthal breathed, slowly backing away from them. His eyes never left the glowing orb in Kraythe’s palm. “The Tel Bator do not wield magic—we crush it!”

  “Forsaken is the man who looks upon the glory of the gods and turns away,” Jessara quoted from scripture. “My father is no mere sorcerer. His power is pure and righteous.”

  She smiled and raised her right hand. The golden claws atop her fingertips began to glow, and a brilliant orb of divine energy flashed into existence above her palm as well.

  “The fury of the gods flows into my father,” Jessara said, grinning. “And from my father, it shall flow unto the faithful like a holy river, uniting us all against the darkness gathering at our doorstep.”

  “Maiden’s mercy,” Arinthal breathed as their power reflected in his dark eyes. “What is this heresy?”

  “You want the Templar to fight, and we will,” Kraythe said. “But not like before. We will never endure another Gareth’s Stand—we will never abide another pointless slaughter on behalf of ungrateful fools. With the Guardian’s might at our command, we can take the battle directly to the enemy. We can smite the Chol with holy wrath and end the Cullings once and for all.”

  “All my father needs is time,” Jessara said. “General Galavir will contain the Chol in the north as long as possible, but he will need help—and soon. The Spire must send him enough Faceless to hold the line until the Templar ready.”