by Sarah Hawke
The Tel Bator had been founded in an era of unprecedented chaos and evil. What had started as a mantra—“the end of sin”—had slowly grown into an organization that had saved Darenthi from Chol, demons, and sorcery. And now, after centuries of bitter struggle, the Tel Bator would finally fulfill their ultimate purpose: to restore the Fallen Gods and deliver the world from sin.
“M-my lord,” the Templar stammered, holding his fingers in front of his face as if he didn’t even recognize them. “I don’t…I can’t…”
“Have faith, son,” Kraythe soothed. “You are no mere sorcerer cursed with abilities you cannot control. The gods themselves will teach you how to serve…”
Another torrent of power flowed between Kraythe and the kneeling man, but this one wasn’t filled with mere energy—it was filled with knowledge. When Kraythe himself had first touched the Godsoul, he had learned more about the Aether in an instant than he had in decades of study. The Godsoul was a well of knowledge as well as a font of power, and bound channelers could absorb all the secrets and techniques they needed to serve the gods in the span of a few heartbeats.
“Allow the light of the Guardian to guide you,” Kraythe whispered. “And allow his grace to redeem you.”
The kneeling Templar inhaled sharply as another current of energy rippled through him. Like almost every other man here, he had started his life as a petty criminal before finding a home here in Griffonwing. If the tharns had their way, he and all the others like him would already be marching to their deaths in the north. All their work, all their sacrifice, all their desperate attempts to find absolution would be swept away in a tide of blood.
Never again.
The young man had finally steeled himself against the tide of power when the door to the chapel cracked open. Sir Donnic Northam leaned inside, and the grave look on his face came as no surprise to the Lord Protector. Despite everything they had already accomplished today, the unforeseen problems were beginning to mount.
“Allow yourself to bask in the glory of the gods,” Kraythe said, leaning away from the man at his feet. “Stay calm and open yourself to their teachings.”
The Templar nodded frantically like a man desperately trying to tread water amidst a storm. He would eventually adapt, of course—he was the tenth man Kraythe had imbued today, and the others had been channeling the Aether like veteran Spire-trained sorcerers in a matter of hours. The boy just needed some time.
Kraythe slowly stepped back and signaled for Northam to approach him near the altar at a few yards away. They were the only ones in the chapel at the moment; the rest of the Templar were either in the armory practicing with their new gifts or upstairs preparing to retire for the evening.
“My lord,” Sir Northam said with a crisp nod. “We have—.”
“A problem, I know,” Kraythe murmured. He sighed and rubbed the sweat from his brow. “The bindings are already weakening.”
The other man nodded gravely. “Every man you empowered this morning has already lost his new abilities. And two of them are…ill.”
“Ill? What are you talking about?”
“They appear to be in a great deal of pain, sir,” Northam said. “The herbs aren’t working, and the healers can’t find any wounds.”
Kraythe grimaced and closed his eyes. He had felt the bonds waning for some time, and he assumed the men he had empowered later in the day would eventually lose their ability to channel as well. He was confident he could restore the bond, but the sheer time and effort involved was harrowing, to say the least. If Galavir were still holding the Chol at bay, Kraythe wouldn’t have been worried. But now…
“I don’t have an explanation,” Northam went on after a moment. “But if I didn’t know better, I would think the men were suffering from…well, from withdrawal.”
“What?” Kraythe asked, frowning.
“They’re shivering like lotus addicts,” Northam said. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”
Kraythe hissed softly through his teeth. Northam was probably exaggerating; every man saw the world through his own experiences, and the Tel Bator had rescued him from a life as a lotus peddler in Shadowcrest. Still, the thought was a disturbing one…
“You’ll forgive me for saying so, my lord, but you look exhausted,” Northam said after a moment. “Perhaps you should—”
“I don’t have time to rest!” Kraythe growled, his gray eyes flicking back open. “None of us do, not if we’re going to stop the horde.”
Northam nodded half-heartedly. “I wish I understood what’s happening. Inquisitrix Jessara hasn’t suffered any ill effects from the bond, and neither have I.”
“You two were the first,” Kraythe said. “And I had more time to spend with each of you.”
The other man didn’t look convinced. “I wonder if it is something else, sir,” Northam murmured. “Perhaps…perhaps this power is being stretched too thin. The more men you empower—”
“We will need an army to defeat the Chol,” Kraythe interrupted. “A half a dozen Templar cannot hold the line, even with the Guardian’s blessing.”
Northam swallowed. “You still believe the Faceless will be able to buy us the time we need?”
“They will have to,” Kraythe said. “Now get back to the men upstairs. I will join them when…”
He trailed off when he felt a ripple from one of the invisible Aetheric tethers binding him to his new followers. But this one wasn’t coming from a Templar—it was coming from his daughter.
“Jessara needs me,” he said, turning away. “Watch the others.”
The Lord Protector didn’t even wait for a reply before he left the chapel and stormed into an empty storeroom a few doors down. Once he was alone, he closed his eyes and mentally followed the tether binding him to Jessara. Within moments, he could see her standing in the Lord Vigilant’s chambers as if he were a disembodied eye floating in the air.
“Jessara,” he said. “What is—”
He stopped himself when he got a clear look at her face. She was angry—violently angry—but he was far more distressed by the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“He betrayed us,” Jessara practically screamed. “Rohen betrayed us!”
Kraythe froze. “What do you mean?”
“He didn’t escape the Hold alone. The Whitefeather bitch—she’s a sorceress, just like everyone feared! And Rohen was off fucking her when the Chol attacked!”
Kraythe grimaced. He had been dreading this moment ever since Jessara had first told him that Rohen had survived the slaughter. His former apprentice was a skilled warrior and duelist, but no one could have escaped the Chol without help—or without finally discovering his true powers. Either outcome was a disaster waiting to happen.
We told you to destroy the pale-blooded mongrel! the dissonant voices of the Godsoul screamed into the Lord Protector’s mind. We told you to destroy the Whitefeather witch! You know what will happen if they escape—you know what will happen if they reach the others!
“Show me,” Kraythe said, focusing back on his daughter. “Show me what happened.”
Jessara’s memories flooded into his mind. He saw exactly what she had seen, including Rohen and Queen Delaryn escaping the Hold. The boy still seemed unaware of his abilities, thank the gods, but the Whitefeather girl’s magic was every bit as terrifying as the Godsoul feared. She already rivaled the powers of the Seven without any training whatsoever.
They must be stopped, the Godsoul demanded. Do what must be done.
Kraythe nodded and drew in a long, deep breath. Two days ago, everything had unfolded exactly as he had planned, but now it seemed like every hour brought another catastrophe. Galavir’s death, the loss of Rimewreath, Rohen’s escape…
“He betrayed us,” Jessara repeated, her voice breaking. “He lied to us. He lied to me!”
Her pain shuddered through their bond, and Kraythe could tell she was barely holding herself together. She had always been independent and private, but he wasn�
�t a fool; he knew exactly how she felt about the half-elf orphan her father had taken under his wing.
But as much as Kraythe wanted to play the role of the protective father and console his only child, this was far more important than petty scorn and a broken heart. The future of Darenthi—the future of the whole damn world—was in their hands. They needed to act swiftly and decisively while they still could.
“Rohen has sinned against the gods,” Kraythe said. “He has broken his oath to the Tel Bator.”
“He must be judged,” Jessara said, gritting her teeth. “He must be punished.”
Kraythe nodded. Despite her pain—or perhaps even because of it—he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to perform her duties. She was a Sanctori Inquisitrix, through and through. The Maiden would give her the strength to endure.
“You know what must be done,” he said, echoing the divine voices inside him. “Eliminate the traitor and destroy the heretic queen. I am counting on you, Jessara.”
Jessara nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I will not disappoint you, Father.”
“I know,” Kraythe said, and meant it. “You never have.”
7
Grace of the Guardian
Rohen groaned as his eyes slowly fluttered back open. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while now, and he vaguely remembered being carried out of the Foundry. The oppressive heat of the forge had been replaced by the cold, damp air of a dungeon, and when he tried to sit up, he realized he had been stripped down to his smallclothes. He was lying flat on his back atop a rough wooden table, his wrists and ankles bound to the corners by thick leather straps. A few hours ago, he would have assumed that Jess was preparing him for some more fun, but not this time.
Delaryn…
He grimaced and struggled to break free, but the straps refused to yield. The pounding in his skull had diminished into a dull ache, but the burning knot in his stomach was as tight and painful as ever. The Keepers were out there hunting for Delaryn and Sehris right now, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to warn the girls about the danger they were in.
The danger he had put them in.
“I can’t believe you lied to me,” Jess’s voice said from somewhere nearby. It was lower and darker than normal, as if she had screamed herself hoarse. “I can’t believe you were trying to protect that Whitefeather witch!”
Rohen leaned his neck up as far as it would go. He didn’t recognize the room they were in, but it was as dark and haunting as the torture chambers in any castle in Darenthi. The sole source of light was a flickering lantern near the only door.
“I should have known you were consorting with her all along,” Jess said, emerging from the shadows and placing the tips of her golden claws atop his abdomen. “And I never should have trusted a pale-blooded mongrel!”
He cried out in pain when she abruptly raked his chest, drawing thin lines of blood across his belly. “Jess, you don’t understand!” he pleaded. “I wasn’t trying to trick you! Delaryn isn’t what you think. She’s—”
“She’s a sorceress and the daughter of the Winter Witch!” Jess snarled. “Thedric should have put her to the torch the moment he took that castle!”
Rohen stared up into her blazing amber eyes. They were as angry as he had ever seen them…but lurking past the rage, concealed beneath her swollen eyelids and smeared makeup, was a well of pain so deep it made his heart sink into his chest. She really believed that he had betrayed her trust. Despite her icy demeanor—despite her imperiousness and self-righteousness—she was still a twenty-year-old woman who had fallen in love with a man she believed loved her back. And Rohen hadn’t realized just how much that belief had meant to her until this moment.
“The Tel Bator implored Thedric to rid himself of her,” Jess said, her hands trembling. “Everyone knew she would lead Darenthi to ruin. The Lord Vigilant insisted that she must be hiding her powers, but Thedric refused to let the Spire have her, that fool…”
“Delaryn isn’t responsible for the Chol,” Rohen insisted. “They were there for the wraithblade dagger, not—”
“Liar!” she shouted, sinking her claws back into his chest. “The Godcursed were there for her and you know it! Her mother’s power slaughtered thousands of them at Gareth’s Stand. They were probably planning their revenge for years…”
“The Chol don’t ‘plan’ anything, Jess!” Rohen snarled back through clenched teeth. “You peered into my mind; you saw what I saw. The Chol didn’t even go after Delaryn once they were inside the keep! They went right for the king because he was holding the dagger—the dagger your father gave him!”
“No!” Jess screeched, raw and ragged. “I will not listen to any more of your lies!”
She lifted her hand from his chest, and her palm exploded in a radiant burst of golden light. Rohen winced, expecting another mental probe, but this time she shaped the Aetheric energy into a long, thin strand almost like a flaming rope.
Or whip.
“You came here believing you could manipulate me,” she said, cracking the searing lash against the floor. “You thought you could turn me against my father, but you’re wrong. He is the Voice of the Guardian and the savior of Darenthi! He saved you. He trusted you. And you betrayed him!”
Rohen flinched away as she cracked the whip against the table barely an inch away from his face. The air sizzled in his ear, and he could feel the heat wash over him.
“I can call out to him any time I wish,” Jess said. “I already told him about your betrayal. He said I had every right to kill you right now.”
“That doesn’t sound like the same person who offered me redemption,” Rohen said. “The Lord Protector I knew was a merciful man, not a vengeful one.”
She cracked the whip next to his head again. “Executing a traitor is justice, not vengeance.”
Rohen forced himself to swallow and stay calm. If she truly believed her father—if she really believed that I had betrayed the Templar and the Tel Bator and Darenthi—she would have killed me already. The only reason I’m still here is because somewhere deep inside her there’s still a kernel of doubt.
“Jess, he doesn’t want you to interrogate me because he doesn’t want you to see the truth,” Rohen said. “He knows that if you peer into my mind again, you might see the dagger and the dead sorcerers and realize that only he could have—”
She cracked the whip across his chest. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that Rohen couldn’t even cry out. He went rigid, paralyzed in agony, and watched in horror as a blistered red lash appeared on his stomach.
“I should cut out your lying tongue and feed it to the hounds,” Jess growled. “Maybe I will. But first, I’m going to make you watch while we lock that Whitefeather cunt in a Faceless shell!”
She lashed him again, this time across his right leg. But even as the pain stole his breath and seared through his flesh, Rohen refused to look away from her. The rage infusing her voice had all but drained out of her eyes. All he saw now was sorrow.
“Did…did you ask your father about the blade?” Rohen gasped, his voice trembling from the pain. “Did you ask where he got it or why he gave it to the king?”
The whip cracked over his chest again. “I told you—no more lies!”
Rohen’s vision began to blur, and the acrid stench of his own sizzling flesh nearly made him retch. But he knew that if he couldn’t get through to her now, he would lose everything. There had to be something he could say or do…
“I-if you want the truth, it’s r-right here!” he said, forcing out the words between clenched teeth. “The Moonmaiden’s light reveals all, yes? Well…shine it on me. Take another look!”
“I’ve seen more than enough,” Jess sneered. “The truth is that you’ve been plotting a coup with that bitch ever since her father hanged, haven’t you? You never stopped working for the Whitefeathers. All this time, the two of you were just planning your revenge against the king…”
“Jess,
you know that’s not true,” Rohen hissed. “I’ve given everything I have to the Templar and your father.”
She reared back, but instead of whipping him, she slapped him across the face. His cheek burned from her claws ripping open his skin, and he could feel the tickle of blood streaming down his face.
“After you watch me lock that witch in her armor, I’m going to drag you to my father,” Jess snarled. “He’ll want to take your head and mount it on a pike outside of Griffonwing!”
Rohen swallowed and shook his head. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“You’re scared to take another look,” he said. “You don’t want to see the truth, do you? You’re scared that once you know, you won’t be able to justify what your father has done here. You won’t be able to justify what you have done here.”
“I am a Sanctori Inquisitrix! I am the wrath of the Tel Bator! I don’t have to justify anything!”
Rohen stared hard into her eyes. “Then take another look, Jess. Take another look and tell me what you see.”
Her cheek quivered, and for a moment, he thought he might have actually gotten through to her. She lifted her empty hand above his head, and it began to flash with light just like when she had interrogated the High Artificer. But then she suddenly yanked her hand away and shook her head.
“I will not allow you to turn me against him!” she snarled. “You are a pale-blooded traitor, and I never should have trusted you!”
Jess reared back her right hand, her whip sizzling in the air, and Rohen closed his eyes and braced himself for yet another lash. The whip cracked harder than ever…
But this time, he didn’t feel any pain.
At first, Rohen thought she must have intentionally missed him. But when he reopened his eyes, the entire room was cast in a warm, eerie blue light. He tilted his head back to look at her, confused—
And saw a shimmering, translucent blue shield glowing protectively over his forearm and torso. It looked exactly like the Guardian’s Ward, except for one important detail.
