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  Endless Night

  The Endless War

  D.K. Holmberg

  ASH Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. Oliver

  2. Ciara

  3. Ciara

  4. Jasn

  5. Jasn

  6. Jasn

  7. Alena

  8. Alena

  9. Eldridge

  10. Oliver

  11. Ciara

  12. Ciara

  13. Jasn

  14. Ciara

  15. Ciara

  16. Jasn

  17. Alena

  18. Alena

  19. Oliver

  20. Ciara

  21. Ciara

  22. Oliver

  23. Ciara

  24. Ciara

  25. Oliver

  26. Ciara

  27. Alena

  28. Jasn

  29. Ciara

  30. Cheneth

  31. Alena

  32. Alena

  33. Jasn

  34. Jasn

  35. Eldridge

  36. Ciara

  37. Ciara

  38. Jasn

  39. Jasn

  40. Eldridge

  41. Alena

  42. Alena

  43. Ciara

  44. Jasn

  45. Ciara

  About the Author

  Also by D.K. Holmberg

  Copyright © 2016 by D.K. Holmberg

  Cover art by Rodrigo Toledo

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  1

  Oliver

  The records in the college are incomplete, though admittedly they are more extensive than what Hyaln possesses. The Varden of Hyaln has long assumed the College of Scholars possess limited knowledge, but what I have seen is anything but limited.

  —Rolan al’Sand, Enlightened of Hyaln

  Oliver Bestrun waited outside the wide double doors of the Seat of the Order. Muted voices drifted through the door, defying any shaped attempt to listen. The Council of the Order were all talented shapers, warriors all, and they would know well enough to mask their voices. That didn’t stop Oliver from wanting to listen.

  His heart raced in nervous excitement, and through an effort of will and a trickle of water shaping, he forced it to slow. Barely more than the slightest touch of the shaping. Most water shapers would never attempt to turn the shaping upon themselves, but few had the necessary control—and knowledge—to do so without harming themselves. Oliver had been a member of the Healing Guild since his earliest days in Atenas and had risen quickly because of his shaping skill. He had remained where he was because of his ability to listen.

  The summons to the Seat was uncommon. Even the council did not simply summon the head of the guild. But he had been summoned.

  He stood fixed in place as he worked to settle his nervous heart. It betrayed him, and he would not have that when coming to the Seat. No, he needed to present a calm and composed appearance befitting his station.

  Taking deep breaths helped soothe his mind, and he continued to tamp down the steady pounding of his heart.

  The door opened, and all his control threatened to leave.

  Using a final shaping, Oliver sent a chill of calm through himself.

  “Guild Master.”

  He nodded to Hester Jons, third on the Seat. The man had trained under Oliver, though briefly enough that there would be no loyalty there. “Councilor Jons.”

  “Thank you for answering the summons. The Seat welcomes you to our chamber.”

  Oliver clasped his hands across his ample belly as he peered past Hester. He had never before come to the Seat, though not for lack of trying. There had been a time when he had wanted nothing more than to be raised to that office, to sit among the council as they ruled over the order. That had been before he’d been called to lead the guild. A part of him still longed for the possibility of who he could have been had he found a way onto the council.

  But answers came easier to those of the guild. In some ways, he learned more than he would have if he had been a member of the council. The guild knew secrets, some that could be dangerous were they shared. Others that were dangerous if they were not.

  Stepping into the room, he noticed it was ornately decorated. A thick rug stretched from wall to wall. A lacquered table rested in the middle, with expertly carved chairs seated around it. Paintings, the work done by some of the earliest masters and therefore quite valuable, were artfully hung. Five lanterns, each glowing with a bright light, were set into the walls.

  The other councilors sat around the rectangular table, though one seat remained open at the end of it. The commander’s seat. Oliver was not surprised that he was missing.

  “Welcome, Master Bestrun.”

  He turned to see Wansa Nawok rise. She was the second on the council, sitting below only the commander himself, who was first of the order. She wore a black robe with a velvet belt and peered at him through sharp gray eyes. Her silver hair was pulled back and secured with a band of matching velvet. Her sword, a weapon rumor said she was quite skilled with, was barely visible beneath the folds of her robe, but there was no denying that she wore it.

  Oliver bowed his head. Had he not been nervous before, he most certainly was now. How had he ever thought to come before the council and not show his nerves? Still holding onto the shaping of water—it remained barely more than a trickle—he used it to keep himself steadied.

  With his head bowed, he glanced at the others around the table. The council was comprised of five members, and all but the commander were here. The fourth, Lester Dakan, sat with his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, as if trying to understand a difficult riddle. The fifth, Margo Cauthy, had her hands on the table and simply watched him. She was the newest on the council, and the youngest. If rumors were to be believed, and they often were, she might be the strongest in power other than the commander.

  “You summoned the guild,” he said.

  Wansa Nawok shook her head. “We summoned Master Bestrun, not the guild.”

  The comment caught him off guard. Wasn’t he here to represent the guild? Why else would they have summoned him? And if not for the guild, then what did they need from him?

  For a moment, he lost control of his shaping and his heart fluttered, but only for a moment, and then he managed to gain a measure of calm once more.

  “I am, of course, honored to have been asked to appear before the Seat of the Order,” he said carefully.

  Hester took his chair, and the weight of the four councilors’ gazes fell upon him. None spoke. Oliver looked from chair to chair, wondering why they had called him here. The more he watched, the more uncomfortable he became.

  But, surprisingly, the more calm as well. He didn’t struggle to steady his heart. There was the awkward silence, but nothing more than that. He would meet their eyes, and he would wait to see why they had summoned him. And the longer he stood there, the more he wondered if the councilors were as nervous as he was.

  “Yes,” Wansa said finally. “We have a question for you that pertains to the guild, but not only the guild. That is why you have been asked to come before us.”

  He squeezed his hands together, pressing them against his stomach to steady himself even more. �
�A question that required a formal summons?” Through the fabric of his robe, he could feel the edge of the paper marked with the seal of the Seat. When one of the order received such a summons, there was no delaying the answer, much as there was no choice but to answer. Ignoring the summons risked expulsion from the order.

  “A formal summons seemed the easiest way to gather the information that was necessary.”

  “I’m not certain that I understand.”

  The council stared at him, unblinking.

  It was then that Oliver became aware of the steadily building pressure of a shaping.

  The effect was subtle, and had he not been so focused on slowing his heart, he might have noticed it before, but had he not been focused on himself, turning his water shaping inward, he might not have noticed what they did at all.

  Few shapers could work their magic without any signs. Oliver had seen some with that ability, but it was considered something of a mark of extreme ability, and even those in the order rarely mastered it.

  He should not be surprised that the council attempted to shape him this way, but why shape him if they had only brought him for questioning?

  Oliver looked to each member of the council and realized the importance of what Wansa had said. They needed him to come before them, but not for questioning—rather, they wanted something else, something they could only achieve through shaping.

  Balls! He had been so focused on worrying about what they wanted that he hadn’t considered any other reason for the summons.

  “What is this?” Oliver met Wansa’s eyes. As she was second on the council, a shaping like this would be controlled by her, wouldn’t it?

  Pushing outwardly, holding on to water and keeping it wrapped around himself like a blanket, he teased at the shaping. A weak shaper with other elements, he might be one of the order, but only barely. Were it not for his ability with water, he might never have been raised to the order. But few rivaled him when it came to water.

  “Hester!” Oliver snapped.

  The third continued to watch him, unblinking and saying nothing.

  Oliver started to back away but realized the shaping held him in place. The effect had been so subtle that he hadn’t even noticed.

  What were they attempting?

  There had been rumors about some in the order lately, but he had thought they were only that—rumors. Stories of a dark power coming out of the tower, of shadows called from a distant land. He had seen those himself, had warned others that they existed, but hadn’t really expected that the council would be the source of those rumors.

  He wouldn’t have many chances to get away safely.

  Oliver worked furiously at the shaping. Most thought water only good for healing, but he had worked with it long enough that he had learned other tricks. With water, he could detect the threads of another shaping and, if given the time, could separate the shaping. That was what he attempted now. If he could only make it work… he might be able to get himself freed.

  If he couldn’t… Oliver didn’t want to think about what might happen. What did the council intend with him?

  As he worked on the shaping, he realized that another held the primary control of the shaping, and not the person he suspected.

  Margo tapped on the tabletop, her fingers dancing in a steady staccato. Each time she tapped, there was a surge of energy around him. He had no other indication for the shaping, nothing that told him they did anything, nothing other than their silence.

  A crawling sensation worked through his mind, and a helpless shiver ran through him.

  Oliver drew in a deep breath and, with a sharp sweep of water, holding it together almost like a knife, severed the connection that pressed around him, destroying the shaping.

  The effort left him weakened.

  Wansa blinked. Hester sat forward suddenly in his chair. Lester’s brow furrowed even deeper. But Margo did nothing other than resume her tapping.

  Oliver took a step back.

  The shaping no longer held him.

  He wrapped water around himself, drawing away as much heat from the air as he could, and pushed backward, sliding on his shaping.

  He crashed into the door and back into the hall.

  Without waiting to see if they would follow, he ran for the stairs.

  When he heard noise behind him, he dove, landing on his generous belly, supported by his shaping of water, and slid down the stairs. Oliver didn’t dare look back to see who might follow and started to plan his next move.

  2

  Ciara

  Maintaining the concealment has been difficult within the college. There are some who would recognize me, and others who question why I am here. It is doubtful that I will be able to maintain the illusion long enough to find what I seek.

  —Rolan al’Sand, Enlightened of Hyaln

  Ciara huddled near the hearth in the strange building. Stone walls pressed around her, solid and stout and damp. Water—more water than she ever would have expected to feel within stone—seeped through it, as if trying to push out of the earth in a stream. She sensed it, even if she could not call it like a true nya’shin.

  But then, what was she if not a nya’shin?

  Her hand squeezed her j’na, the only thing she still possessed that marked her as nya’shin and of Rens. Even her clothing had changed; she was no longer in her thin elouf, clothing far too thin for even her time in K’ral, and was dressed now in a thick brown cloak that made her look like one of Ter. What would her father say if he saw her like this?

  But her father might already be dead. She’d been gone from Rens and the village for long enough that she didn’t know what had happened to him. And she would have gone back—she should have gone back—but Olina had convinced her that she needed to go with the Ter shapers so that she could learn.

  Since she’d come, she had been held in this room, essentially a prison, with no contact with any of the shapers. Was that what Olina expected of her?

  Ciara stared into the hearth, wishing that she felt more warmth from the flames dancing there. Part of her longed to return to Rens, to the heat and the dry air and the familiarity, but she needed to learn. That was the reason she’d come here, so that she could understand what she might be able to do.

  Pressure built in her head, the kind she’d learned to associate with shaping, and she turned to see the door open. The older, gray-haired man the others called Wyath entered, carrying a tray of food. He brought it around the desk stacked with books she couldn’t read and set it on a small table, motioning to it.

  “You should eat.”

  Ciara wrapped her arms around her legs and looked away. Her j’na pressed against her knees and she pushed harder, letting herself feel the pain. Maybe if she pushed hard enough, it would break too, just like every other connection she had to her home.

  “You should eat,” Wyath said again.

  “Why? Why does it matter?”

  “You haven’t eaten anything I’ve brought you.”

  “No. I won’t take anything that you’ve poisoned.” She doubted they had poisoned anything, but her frustration at being here and not seeing anyone but Wyath had begun to overwhelm her.

  Wyath lifted a lump of bread and tore off a piece. He dipped it in the stew he’d brought and chewed it slowly, deliberately, and then swallowed. “Not poisoned. Eat.”

  “I was supposed to learn why I came here.”

  Wyath stared at her, his eyes falling to her j’na. “You can summon the elementals. That is why you are here.”

  “I won’t hurt them.”

  “I can see that you won’t,” Wyath said.

  “Then why not teach me? Isn’t that why Olina sent me here?” She eyed the food. It had been nearly a week since she’d had anything to eat. Her thirst had betrayed her long ago, forcing her to drink, though she had used water sensing to test the clarity before doing so. And she couldn’t detect anything in the food either, but that didn’t mean it was safe. Were she a water shaper like
a true nya’shin, she might be able to use the connection to heal herself should she be poisoned, but for now, she had to rely on her sensing ability.

  “She sent you to learn from Cheneth.”

  Ciara snorted. “Cheneth. You say his name as if I should know it, but I haven’t seen him. All the time that I’ve been here and there has been no sign of this person, I begin to wonder if this wasn’t some way to trap me.”

  Wyath’s face remained unreadable, but she felt the way his heart quickened. Had she made him nervous or angry? Either might be dangerous.

  “Why do you stay here?” Ciara had half a mind to slam her j’na into the ground. She wasn’t sure if it would have the same effect as when she’d been with Olina, or whether it would summon… whatever it was that she had summoned, but the j’na still had a draasin-glass tip, and she could still use it as a weapon. If nothing else, she would prove to this Wyath that she was not to be mistreated.

  The old man merely watched her, sadness in his eyes that reflected the light from the hearth. “I thought that I could understand,” he said. “But perhaps we have moved beyond the opportunity to understand each other. A shame if that is what has happened.”

  Ciara gripped the length of her j’na, the carvings her father had placed on the shaft of the spear pressing into her palm. Almost she could hear his gentle chiding, a warning to listen rather than to rush in without thinking.

  What did she really know? She had been brought to this place, one that seemed apart from the rest of Ter. She didn’t know anything about the people of Ter, only the destruction caused by their shapers, but these shapers had not harmed her. Rather, they had come for the shadow man and had helped to press him back, had pushed him out of the draasin. If nothing else, she needed to find a way to trust rather than fear.

  Without looking up, she took the tray holding the stew and took a tentative bite.

  Wyath watched her for a long moment before nodding.