Noril slammed both fists against the table, hard enough to rattle it. “I cannot believe it is possible! This thing cannot rob us of our very souls! Surely that is only for weaker minds?”
Amrath grunted at this. “Yorn isn't certain, and neither am I. The Eye speaks to those dark, bestial parts in men, the pieces that long to be led, to belong, to follow the herd.”
“I am not so certain I would call such people men,” Noril said with a scowl.
“Oh, please,” Amrath sneered. “How many nights have you gone to bed, alone with your thoughts, feeling beset and misunderstood by the world, by the people who ought have faith in you? It's the human condition. Would you not, perhaps, in a moment of weakness, fall victim to a calm, soothing voice promising you community and purpose?”
“I make my own purpose, and I need no 'community'.”
“Suppose we are immune!” Amrath shot back, growing more exasperated by the moment. “What of the rest of the people we liberated? How many have died to preserve that freedom? Do we leave them to their fate and abandon the ideals that motivated us? I see that as an even greater risk of collapse, a larger confession of weakness!”
Noril ran a hand through his bristly hair as he absorbed Amrath's argument. “What do you propose? Exactly.”
“A summit under truce, to offer our surrender. We will slay Alexander and take the Eye. Once Yorn has destroyed it, we will all surrender ourselves to Xanthius in truth.”
Tasinal felt something in him twist at this notion. “If we are rid of the Eye, we no longer need to surrender. Why would you do such a thing?”
“It's hard enough to justify what I plan. Going the whole distance, I think, would be too much on my part. Hypocrisy is, for me, the deadliest poison I can imagine.”
“It's not hypocrisy to change one's mind.”
Amrath began to chuckle at this, then broke into full, honest laughter. He flashed Tasinal a wicked grin, his green eyes once again filled with merriment and confidence as if nothing had ever been amiss. “No. We can always fight another day.”
Noril, still dour, nodded at this. “They will never agree to such a thing unless we press them. We must fight, Amrath. All of us. No more proxy wars, no more half measures. We unleash our wrath in full, until they beg us to come to the table.”
Amrath rose from the throne, nodding. “Yes, brother, I know. It is time once more to slay tyrants and their minions. Let us begin.”
Xanthius is angry with me again. He will be angrier when he knows why I summoned him.
Alexander saw through the hazy lens of his normal eyes his Imperator enter the command tent and stand to attention. Xanthius's face was creased even deeper than usual with worry. Alexander held up a hand for patience. “A moment, Imperator. I would speak to you with my full attention.”
Amrath and the rest of the Meites had taken the field after all, and what had once been certain victory was now in doubt. Alexander's people were pinpricks of green in his vision, tiny and vulnerable. The Meites were great, crimson searchlights cutting swathes through the green, leaving only black in their wake.
He was still convinced his side would emerge victorious, but at what cost? Thousands of lives, perhaps hundreds of thousands. The Meites were no mere soldiers. They were demigods! Even now, he felt a thousand of his people shriek in terror as the ground shattered beneath their feet, quaking and heaving. Alexander fell with them into the darkness, over and over. He burned alive, felt his head collapse under driving hailstones, watched the very stones in the earth rise up and crush him like a bug, or shoot through him like arrows. Each of the enemy had his own flavor to his killing, his own personal style, but all ended the same: black across his vision.
In less than a week, they have decimated my forces.
Alexander called out through the mists to the enemy leader, “It is not right that you are here!”
He could not see inside the man's head, only hear the response. “Speak not to me of propriety, Boy King! I might crush their bodies, but you crush their souls!”
“I bring order to your chaos.”
“You bring misery and evil, just as your father did!”
“You and your kind murdered my father.”
“We executed a tyrant.”
“My father was a good man!”
“Is that what they told you?”
Alexander withdrew a moment, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. The butchery of his people, this poison whispered in his ear, it was too much.
“If you would stop this slaughter, do as I demand,” the enemy called to him. “Accept our surrender in person.” He shut himself off then, and would hear no more.
Alexander, too, had heard enough for the moment.
With a sigh, Alexander shifted his vision more fully back to his own body, to fight an entirely different battle. His Imperator understood less and less of what was happening, and Alexander had no ability to explain. It was not possible to communicate the vision to someone whose viewpoint was still so narrow.
“You can't do this,” Xanthius declared.
“It is done. I have made my decision.”
“It's a trap!”
Alexander focused his attention on Xanthius, despite the welling cries of his people. “I must accept their surrender in person.”
“Elgar take such foolish notions!” Xanthius shouted. “I will go.”
“No,” Alexander commanded. “It must be me.”
“They will kill you!”
Alexander said nothing for a moment, his attention focused on the cries of his men as the Meites cut through them like wildfire in a dry wood. “One way or another, this ends. You will be needed here in the event I fall.”
Xanthius stared at him. “What are you saying?”
Alexander gripped the Eye in his hand, feeling strength and purpose flow into him as he spoke to everyone. “I am saying, Xanthius, that if I fall, then there can be no surrender. Not of anyone.”
Xanthius's eyes grew so wide it seemed they would burst from their sockets. “Mei! Stop it!” he cried out in horror. “Do you not realize what you're doing?”
Curious, that you should call upon the god of our enemies at such a time as this. “Civilization is at a precipice. On Cofletere, there is still hope. If I fall, you will leave no one alive on Prima to threaten it.”
“Alexander! By all that is holy, recant! Slay an entire continent? It's madness!”
Perhaps. The whole world has gone mad, it seems.
“You have your orders, Imperator.”
Chapter 1
The Changeling
Narelki eyed the stern, pock-marked face of the orderly barring her entrance to the spotless tiled hallway, making no secret of her disdain. The man was a commoner with no concept of his station, or what she could do to make it considerably worse. “You will stand aside at once.”
Craterface clenched his jaw and folded his arms across his chest. “I have my orders. Doc said he’s too violent.”
Narelki felt a twitch beneath her left eye, and wrinkled her nose at the antiseptic smell that permeated the entire building. The indignity of this place, the reek of sickness both physical and mental was unbearable. “What sane person wouldn’t be?” How her son Aiul had ever tolerated running the hospital was beyond her. Was it any wonder he was half-mad, now that he had been confined here?
Maranath, dressed in his usual drab, brown robe, pulled at his white, tangled beard and glared down at the orderly with equal measures of shock and annoyance. “Do you have any idea who you are addressing, boy?” he asked, his voice gravelly and sure, without a tremor despite his age.
Craterface shot him a sneer. “Doesn’t matter. I have orders.”
Narelki could barely contain her fury. That this pathetic creature dared speak to them in such tones was intolerable. She cast a quick look toward Maranath, seeing her thoughts reflected in his ancient, blazing eyes, before turning back to the orderly. If we had just a bit less self-restraint, your own mother wouldn't recogni
ze what we left of you. When at last she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. “Do you know what happens if I pull my support from this institution?”
Maranath stepped closer to Craterface, invading his personal space. “Or what could happen to your head, say, if I were slightly more annoyed than I am now?” The old sorcerer clenched his right hand and smacked it into his left. A gaping, fist-sized hole suddenly appeared in the marble wall near Craterface’s head, spraying a rain of tiny shrapnel in all directions. One small missile cracked the glass reservoir of a wall lantern with a sharp ping, sending a streamer of oil down the ceramic tiles beneath. The orderly stared at Maranath in horror, blood welling from multiple new pinholes on his cheek as he silently mouthed, “Meites!”
From down the hall, an anxious male voice called out, “Matriarch Narelki! Allow me to assist you!” The tapping of his rapid footsteps echoed from the walls as he approached, a small writing pad clutched against his chest, his face concerned, save for his eyes. They were bright, electric blue, cold fires above the marble cliffs of his high cheekbones and narrow, long face. Those eyes seemed calm as death.
Narelki regarded the newcomer with her own, cold stare. He wore the white robe of a physician, but she couldn’t place him. He seems familiar at that, though. “And you are...?”
“Healer Rithard, Mistress.”
He was young, this one, and nervous. As he should be. She waited a moment for him to continue, then raised an eyebrow in annoyance. Why are youths not taught proper manners these days? “Surely you are no commoner?”
The healer’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, Mistress.” He hesitated a moment, as if searching for the right words. “I am Rithard... of House Amrath.”
Maranath snickered, and Narelki, for all of her concern, found herself slightly amused as well, though she could not allow it to show. “Ah. My apologies to you,” she offered with a curt nod. Of course he seemed familiar. He might be mistaken for my own son, except for the black hair. I can’t be expected to remember everyone, after all. She inclined her head toward the trembling orderly. “You will explain this, I presume?”
“I accept full responsibility, Mistress. I gave the order that no one was to see Master Aiul. I hadn’t meant to apply it to you, of course, but I should have been more specific.”
Narelki cast an imperious glare at the orderly for a long moment, then muttered, “You may go.”
Craterface stepped gingerly to the side, away from the hole in the wall, gave a deep bow, then fairly bolted down the hallway. Maranath smiled and waved at the fleeing orderly. “Excellent judgment. Bravo.”
Rithard pulled at his robe as Narelki turned toward the door again. “Ah, Matriarch, I would very much like to speak with you about the current situation before you enter. You should be prepared for what you will see.”
Mei, what’s happened? “You will speak to me here and now.”
Rithard glanced toward a door farther down the hallway. “Mistress, I think it best if we discuss things in a more private location.”
Narelki found herself bristling at this, even though it was a perfectly reasonable, prudent thing for Rithard to suggest. These were Aiul’s underlings, after all. It simply wouldn’t do to have his failings exposed to them. I’m spending far too much time with Maranath these last few days. I fall back into old ways, but I lack the old strength. That is a good way to end up opening my wrists. She offered Rithard a smile she hoped seemed genuine, and nodded. “Of course.”
Rithard escorted them past a small reception area and into his office, offering a courteous nod to an attractive blond receptionist as they passed her desk.
His office, in contrast to the rest of the hospital, was warm and inviting, filled with the smell of sandalwood. Framed testaments from various elders lined the paneled walls. Rithard closed the door and gestured toward two leather-bound chairs that stood in front of a large desk. “Please, have a seat.”
“We’ll stand,” Narelki told him. “We don’t intend to be long, do we?”
Rithard shook his head vigorously, clearly indicating that he understood she was giving him a command, not asking a question. “Of course not, mistress. I’ll get right to the point.” He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes seemed to wander away from a direct confrontation, preferring the floor or the walls. “Master Aiul received severe head trauma while incarcerated. When he arrived here this morning, he was confused and violent. It took five orderlies to subdue him, and even then he managed to injure his best assistant. The poor woman needed stitches.”
Narelki took a moment to absorb the unexpected news. “And how does he explain this?”
Rithard’s expression was a mixture of pity and misery. “He doesn’t speak at all, Mistress. If he comprehends either spoken or written word, he shows no sign of it. He is catatonic, or he is savagely violent.”
Narelki gasped at this. “Will it pass?”
“It may.”
“Days? Weeks?”
“Or months. Or never. The brain is a foreign land we view from afar. Its workings are known only little.”
Narelki could barely contain a wail of grief. She felt Maranath’s hand on her shoulder, steadying her, and for once she was grateful to have him at her side.
“What caused this?” Maranath growled. “There will be grave consequences if I find this was from some abuse.”
Rithard turned up his palms. “I can’t say for certain, but it doesn’t seem so. Caelwen says Master Aiul knocked himself unconscious trying to escape his cell. He was unresponsive when they found him. The injuries I see are consistent with that story.”
Maranath grunted. “Well, Caelwen is not apt to lie. I’ll trust his word on it, then.”
Narelki turned to Maranath, once again so full of rage she could barely contain it, though this time it was directed at a much more substantial target. “House Noril had a duty to protect him from this. I will hold them accountable!”
Maranath bristled and shot back, “Their man is dead. I’d say he paid for his mistake well enough.”
“Davron should never have put a fool in such an important position. He is liable.”
Maranath fixed her with a stern glare, his blue eyes dancing, vibrant, full of life and lightning. “This is not the time or the place to discuss such matters,” he told her, saying each word slowly. “Compose yourself.”
Fortunately for the both of us, I’ve had some experience with composing myself, unlike you. Narelki held his gaze a moment, long enough to remind him she was stronger than he might think, then turned back to Rithard. “That was not for your ears.”
The healer seemed to be focusing on a document on his desk. He looked at Narelki innocently. “My apologies, Mistress. I'm afraid I was distracted. What was not for my ears?”
“Very good. I shall remember you for that.”
Rithard offered her a knowing smile. “It is good to be remembered.”
“Now I would see my son.”
“Of course,” Rithard said, then paused, again looking squeamish. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin a moment, then continued. “There is one more thing.”
Narelki said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
Rithard opened his mouth slightly to speak, but two full seconds passed before any words came out. At last, he stammered, “There has been some damage to his face.”
Aiul awoke with a start, head cloudy with the last vestiges of sleep, and breathed a sigh of relief. “A dream,” he whispered. “Only a dream.”
The pain fell upon him like a meteor. There was no single source, though each of the hundred or so violations of his flesh wailed with a slightly different pitch. Their song, in turn, pulled him from half consciousness into full awareness, to be crushed anew with an agony of spirit made all the more excruciating by his brief moment of hope.
He closed his eyes and lay on the floor in silence for what seemed an eternity. The cold, damp stone of the cell against his cheek; the blinding agon
y in his head; the sharp tang of blood; the utter emptiness he felt inside at his loss; all could be dismissed as illusion, if only he refused to open his eyes and concede his situation. He would will it untrue, believe it into unbeing, and things would return to how they had once been.
It was futile, he knew. He had never been the sort of man who could deceive himself, and even here, with the greatest of incentives, he had no choice but to face reality in all its jagged, blood-streaked glory, to confront the fact that Lara was gone, and he was responsible. His arrogance, his pride, his sense of duty, all had brought agony and death to the one person who mattered to him. He felt his guts twist as he remembered more. “Two people,” he whispered.
Even as he sobbed quietly, drowning in guilt and shame, that piece inside him, his own jagged edge, pricked at his heart and mind, unwilling to accept the full blame. It was his failure, yes, but not his fault. Kariana's hand held the blade that rent Lara’s flesh. Yet even that was not the whole of it. Kariana was a weakling, a hedonist. She had no real power but what she was permitted by the elders. It was Nihlos itself, in all its spiteful apathy, all its adherence to precedent and ritual, that had allowed a monster like Kariana to thrive, had made it necessary for him to act, and in the end, had killed his family.
Between gasps of pain and grief, his lips, still wet with blood, left a trail on the damp stone beneath him, a strange kiss of agony. “You will be avenged, my loves,” he whispered A bright, jagged thing flashed in his mind, hot and sharp, tearing at the deep parts of his soul. “All Nihlos will pay.”
Narelki moved quickly as she exited the small, padded room. I need air! The vision of her son, broken, a doll tossed against a wall and left shattered on the floor, still burned at her mind as the reek of excrement and sweat still burned in her nose.
She felt tears welling in her eyes. His face! What have they done to his beautiful face? In truth, she had no idea. His entire head was swathed in bloody bandages, and that made it all the worse, somehow. To see him battered would have been one thing, but to not see him at all? How bad must it be that they would need to bandage everything?
Mad God's Muse Page 2
