It was a crystalline shard-barely more than a sliver-that fit neatly in the palm of his hand.
“What is it?” Jukung asked in a hoarse voice.
“That, my young Assesia,” Soen said through a rueful smile, “is part of an Aether Well.”
“You are mistaken,” Jukung said. “It cannot be.”
“And yet it is,” Soen replied. “Aether Wells might crack or they might split, but the power of the Aether itself binds the crystals together. It is impossible for them to shatter once they are forged-and yet,” he held the crystal within inches of the young elf’s face, “here is it. In the face of the impossible we find ourselves holding it in our hand.”
Soen turned and looked up. “And there it is.”
“What, Master?”
“The story of the House,” Soen said as he stepped carefully across the debris and strewn bodies into the Hall of the Past. Soen followed the broken wall, reading it for a few moments until he summarized for the young Assesia. “Sha-Timuran was an elf of the Third Estate,” Soen said, mulling his own words. “His name apparently did rank among the noble Houses of the Empire. Two generations before it had been ranked only in the Fourth Estate, but due to a series of favors looked kindly on by the Imperial Eye, House Timuran was allowed to prove itself in the Third Estate by taking up residence in the Western Provinces. And this, it seems, was the result of all his efforts. He had grand hopes of garnering honor through battle. His single little Centurai had participated in nearly every battle against the Nine Dwarven. .”
Soen suddenly stopped.
A long stain ran down the length of the Hall of the Past.
Soen moved quickly, running around the bend of the hall as he pursued the path of the blood on the floor. Within a few strides he could see its source-a single, elven body slumped backward against the wall at the far end of the corridor. The face was bloated and discolored, but Soen recognized at once the uniform of the House Tribune, a patch remaining over his left eye. His blade was broken, but the grip was still in his hand.
Soen straightened, considering the figure before him.
“I know this elf,” he murmured in awe.
Jukung slid to a stop next to the Inquisitor, eyeing the dead Tribune. The smell of rotting flesh was overpowering. “Master, we must be going. .”
“Pause for a moment, Jukung, and honor a fallen hero,” the Inquisitor said, gesturing toward the dead elf sagging against the wall before him. “This is Se’Djinka-hero of the Benis Isles Campaigns among a dozen others. He was a general back then, and I only personally saw him twice. He lost favor in the Imperial Courts, however, and vanished from the official histories. Now we find him as a dead Tribune in this obscure, ambitious House.”
“This place is unsafe, Master,” Jukung urged, gagging even as he spoke. “We must hurry. .”
“Don’t you think this is odd, Jukung?”
“I. . what, Master?”
“That the Guardians of the House had all formed together in the entrance to this hall,” Soen said, speaking aloud his thoughts as he considered them, his eyes fixed on the corpse before them. “It doesn’t lead anywhere except to one of the access towers, but the avatria had no doubt fallen by the time they made their defense. This hall would have been a dead end. Yet here we see their Tribune. Why would a Tribune-and especially a successful and brilliant tactician by all accounts-put himself and his force in such a precarious position unless. .”
Soen reached forward, gripping the Tribune’s armor behind his neck and pulling the body suddenly forward. It made a sticky, ripping sound as it separated from the wall and collapsus to the floor. Soen stepped over the body to the wall, gave it a cursory look, and then pressed against it.
The flat stonework shifted inward slightly and then swung back toward the elven Inquisitor. At once, Soen stepped back, pulling open the hidden door.
“Unless he was protecting something,” Soen finished as he stepped into the doorway and then stopped.