Xander grips the scimitar’s warm metal hilt. Without hesitation he stands and plunges the blade into Szodrin’s chest, forcing the air from the Night Gen’s lungs in one startled gasp.
Szodrin stares with lightless eyes. He slides from the blade as the last gear grinds to a halt.
Silence reigns as it must have before the birth of the world. Xander looks up from Szodrin’s corpse to see the dead god’s children regarding his slayer coolly. Xander thrusts the sword before him, pointing it first at one god; then the other.
“I know that blade,” Shaiel says. There is anger in his voice.
And fear?
Thera looks upon her father’s body. “It’s alright, Xander. I won’t be avenging Zadok on anyone.” Her rose quartz eyes shift to Tefler. “Especially not my son.”
Xander turns his head so fast his neck nearly snaps.
Tefler stares at the goddess, his impassive façade shattered. “You’re my mother?”
“Elathan took you from me,” she says. “I grew the tree to catch you when you fell.”
“And yet he seeks your life,” Shaiel scoffs, “If you desired death, you had only to ask.”
Xander levels the white sword at Shaiel’s chest. His hands shake as he feels the Void’s eyes on him.
“Heed me, boy. My sister knows neither justice nor love. She twists all to her own ends.”
“At least she renounces murder,” Xander says. “You hunted my clan to their deaths.”
Shaiel’s face holds no expression. “Death comes to all. Torment is another matter. Consider how the souldancers suffered for Zadok’s design.”
“None have suffered, but I alone,” says Szodrin’s voice.
Xander wheels to see Szodrin standing. His Night Gen uniform hangs in tatters from his burned and frozen flesh. A clean straight wound mars the center of his chest.
“Szodrin?” Xander says, unbelieving. “But I killed you.”
The being that was a Night Gen presses a blackened hand to its chest. “Regaining the lost fragments of their souls made my children perfect. Should not reclaiming the soul that was my whole self exalt me above them?”
A skyward glance confirms that the black pyramid has descended from its place on high. Zadok no longer speaks through his creature. He and Szodrin are one.
“The gods stand guilty,” Zadok decrees. “Now you, Xander, have chosen for men.”
“You rendered your verdict,” says Xander. “I acted to save those you would destroy.”
Zadok shakes his head. “I alone made Thera, and I judged her successors alone. I made men with Thera’s aid, and I would not judge them without theirs.
“You did not heed Szodrin when he said he’d escaped death. His soul was the last obstacle to my awakening. By his death at your hands, I have arisen for judgment.”
Xander looks at the white sword. Its surface casts everything in shades of lavender—even the White Well. But now it reflects a single point of pure white light that Zadok’s Nexus had hidden. The light whispers ineffable words in a familiar voice, and hope kindles in Xander’s heart.
Searching above, Xander realizes that the new light is hidden from his eye, but a new thought enters his mind.
“The gods have had their say. Will you listen to one man’s plea on behalf of men?”
Zadok broods in silence before he answers. “Say your piece.”
Xander points to the black monoliths woven together with silver threads. “You made the world for good, and you judge its worth by all creatures’ choice for evil or good.”
“That is so,” says Zadok. “My fragments could have chosen light and thus destroyed the darkness, but they preferred evil.”
“Why should they not?” asks Xander.
Zadok’s brow creases. “Leave is given you to make but one plea. Do not waste it on foolish games.”
“Is it foolish to ask why one should prefer good to evil?”
Zadok eyes Xander sternly but says nothing.
“Goodness, light, and life are one and the same,” Xander continues. “So are evil, darkness, and death. You presume that the Well’s light is best, but Shaiel proposes a world founded on the Void that is no less sound.”
“Evil is opposed to right order,” Zadok says.
“But it is still an order. Shaiel’s darkness isn’t just a shadow cast by light. You gave it substance so it could be destroyed but gave us no reason to destroy it.”
“I intended that all beings pursue good.”
“Yet we chose evil. By giving evil substance, you allowed us to make it our good.”
“The Nesshin reasons well,” Shaiel says.
Zadok’s gold eyes narrow. “Too well. He receives this word from another.”
Thera turns to her father. “Don’t you see? The test is flawed.”
“It was always flawed,” adds Xander.
“Let’s try it again,” Tefler says.
Zadok shakes his head. “What would be gained by another trial in a faulty system? An opposite result would be no more valid. My judgment stands.”
Xander hears the words like thunder that heralds rain. “There is another way. Even the White Well is a shadow that cannot conquer the darkness. Allow true light to shine upon this world.”
Zadok stares at Xander as if taken aback. But his emotionless aspect returns. “How shall this light above all known good enter our shadow play?”
“Its bearers wait for you to admit them,” Xander says, his heart swelling with a conviction he can’t explain.
Xander bows his head. “I robbed you of the woman you loved. Treating me in kind would be just, but would she have had you show justice, or mercy?”
Szodrin’s scarred face betrays nothing of Zadok’s thoughts.
Hope and fear clash in Xander’s soul until Zadok says, “If they would enter, let them come.”
Beyond his own mind; in the upper darkness where Zadok once reigned, Xander sees a new light descending. Though much smaller, its azure brilliance outshines the White Well.
The blue star falls like desert rain, finally quenching Xander’s lifelong thirst for the sublime. It vanishes from his sight, but he hears the soul-echo, rising in volume and clarity.
The star approaches the terminus, and the stalled gears awake at its approach. Their motion differs from before.
They are moving backwards, Xander notes with growing elation.
All the vast clockworks of Kairos reverse, gaining speed until they stop as one with a single deafening toll. The gears start turning again, counting forward from the beginning, as the new light reaches the foot of the stairs.
Now, at last, Xander sees the reason for his hope shining from Astlin’s brow like a crown of three radiant sapphires. She meets Xander’s eye, gathers her black skirts, and runs to him.
Xander reaches out with trembling hands, afraid that she will vanish like a dream. But smooth silk meets his touch as he encircles her waist, and her living, breathing warmth presses against him.
“Is it true?” he asks. “Has my Serieigna returned to me?
Smiling, Astlin caresses his face in her soft, delicate hands. “It’s me. After all this time; the real me.”
“Of course. No dream could be this real. But how long can it last?”
The blue stars fade, but Astlin’s eyes still reflect the glow of her crown and an even greater joy. “Forever—if you’ll have me.”
“I will have nothing that you don’t give,” Xander vows.
Their lips meet. Her light and joy pour into him.
“So be it,” pronounces Zadok. “You were one in spirit. Now you are the same flesh—outsiders in my creation, as long as you remain.”
There is pain as Xander’s life thread burns away, but the new light sustains him—both him and Astlin, together.
“Is she alive again,” asks Tefler, “or are both of you dead now?”
Xander’s gaze never leaves Astlin. “Now we truly live; no longer shards of Zadok, but only ourselves.”
“Szodrin’s death made an opening to the world beyond the world,” Thera says to Tefler. “Astlin escaped and brought the true light back with her. I kept her and Xander connected through my nexus, so he has it, too.”
“That’s great,” says Tefler. “What is it, exactly?”
“Beyond anything we’ve experienced,” Thera says. “Are you going to kill me?”
Tefler seems to ponder the question. “I mainly wanted to kill you because I thought you killed my mom. Since you are my mom, I guess you’re in the clear.”
“Then I should visit your grandmother. Care to join me?”
“Oh, you mean Nakvin. Sure. The rest of my day is free.” Tefler turns from Thera to Xander and Astlin. “I gather you’re not coming with us?”
“You were right, Tefler,” says Astlin. “I have the chance to save everyone—to free them from the Nexus like Xander freed me.”
Shaiel’s voice fills the air like freezing mist. “Men fear the unknown. Few if any will heed you, and the rest will be mine.”
Astlin faces Shaiel unflinching. “That’s probably true. I’ll try anyway.”
“We both will,” Xander says, encircling Astlin’s waist with one arm. She returns his embrace. “And each soul we save may free others in turn.”
A sneer twists Shaiel’s once emotionless face. “Self-deluded gulls. Can either of you save your kin? Or the malakh and the Gen who squandered their lives for you?”
“No,” Astlin says, the sadness in her voice giving way to resolve. “But Xander and I can save others thanks to them—and thanks to your servants’ failure.”
“I commanded my servants to gather my scattered brethren into one fold. Time and again you spurned them. And even now, in my presence, you give offense.”
As Shaiel speaks, the gears of Kairos begin to slow once more. “If you desire my enmity, then so be it. I renounce all ties of kinship with the Queen of Fire. Let her be as a stranger and a thief who comes over the wall, and let her suffer the same fate.”
In an instant, Xander has the white sword pointed at Shaiel’s heart. This time, his hand is steady. “I have already killed a god today. Try laying a hand on my bride, and I’ll make it two.”
Almost imperceptibly, Shaiel draws back. “Empty posturing! I am the death of worlds. At a whim, I can plunge you, your slattern, and this entire realm into the Void.”
“But you will not,” Szodrin says with sovereign finality. “None may interfere with the trial. Avenge your wounded pride elsewhere.”
Shaiel glowers at Xander and Astlin with all the hate of the restless dead. “Waste your power among the rabble if you wish. They will turn on you soon enough, and in the end you will stand alone before the Void.”
Then he is gone, leaving only a bitter chill and a lingering dread. The engine of time resumes its normal march.
Xander gives Astlin a squeeze—for her reassurance and his. “Ignore his boasting. Zadok stands with us.”
“I take no side in the coming trials,” Zadok rebukes him. “My judgment decrees a new contest; it does not foreordain the outcome.” Having spoken, he removes himself from sight, but Xander knows that the All-Father is never truly absent.
Astlin turns to Thera. “Where does the goddess of the Well stand?”
“It was good to meet you,” Thera says, “and I’m glad you can be with Xander. But Shaiel isn’t my responsibility anymore. You asked for a second chance. Making it work is up to you.”
To Xander, leaving Astlin’s embrace is like tearing himself in half. Her spiced floral scent follows him as he approaches Tefler with the white scimitar.
“This is Elohim. My time wielding it is over. Give the sword to Cook when you return to the Serapis.”
Tefler hesitates for a moment, winces as he takes the hilt from Xander’s hand, and secures it in his belt. “No problem.”
Thera beckons to Tefler. “I’ve kept my mother waiting long enough.”
Walking hand-in-hand, she and her son fade into the branching paths of Kairos.
Xander rubs his left eye as vision returns to it. Astlin gently removes the bandage.
“What do you see?” he asks.
“The same lovely grey eye as always.”
Xander kisses the top of Astlin’s head. Her hair tastes faintly of honey and wine. She leans against his chest, resting in him.
“We may have climbed from the grave to the edge of the abyss,” he tells her. “What will we do now?”
Astlin’s voice is calm; implacable. “Save everyone we can.”
Epilogue
Zebel strove mightily to focus on her book—the lurid account of an Atavist monastery defiled in Gahnhei dynasty Thysia, complete with comically inaccurate drawings by a Stranosi merchant writing centuries after the fact—but another round of muffled screams impelled her to set down the yellowed tome and direct her seething gaze toward the center of the room.
“Give it up, Tzaraat. Those reeking viscera will tell you no more than their owner could.”
Tzaraat’s hunched back, draped in a grey mantle that collected filth as if it adorned a beggar and not a priest, remained turned toward Zebel. She counted such disrespect a blessing since it spared her the sight of his face. Besides his wet rasping breath, the Voice of Shaiel kept paradoxically silent.
Unlike the boy hanging from the ceiling.
Zebel stood and straightened her black robe’s hem, which bore the thread of gold device of a Guild Grandmaster. “Honestly, does haruspicy even work anymore? The gods are gone.”
The bright lamps—common fixtures on Cadrys—were overpowered by golden light that shone from Tzaraat’s dangling victim. Shaiel’s Voice fled from the hellish cold, and Zebel saw the mound of entrails shrink to a pile of ash on the slate floor.
The child’s bonds likewise shriveled, and he landed in a crouch. “The old gods are long departed, aye,” he said with the voice of a frozen corpse. The boy stood, revealing abdominal cavity and eyes filled with absolute blackness. “But know you well, Shaiel’s Right Hand, that others now sit their thrones.”
“Hello, Fallon,” Zebel said. “Was Mithgar’s hospitality lacking?”
Tzaraat scuttled in with golden robes which he wrapped around Fallon’s young shoulders. Thus vested, the Will of Shaiel strode to the table beside Zebel’s couch and inspected her book.
His vas must be somewhere nearby.
“I have communed with our lord,” said Shaiel’s Will, running his small fingers over the open page.
“But the mask is gone,” said Zebel.
“Beyond all hope I found it once, and shall find it again. Be sure that it serves our lord’s will, and know that we spoke face to face as friends well met.”
Zebel’s throat felt suddenly dry. “You don’t mean…”
Fallon glanced over his shoulder. “Shaiel’s bondage is ended, yes.”
Tzaraat squealed and fell prostrate.
A million questions whirled in Zebel’s mind, but all she asked was, “What did he say?”
“Many are his tidings, but of import to you is his displeasure with your meddlesome brood.”
Zebel looked Fallon up and down, an act which his current form expedited. “Speaking from eons of experience, meddling is children’s chief occupation.”
The book burst into flame under Fallon’s hand, sending up a stream of sweet white smoke. “One of them dwelt long in Shaiel’s house, with his Lawbringers none the wiser.”
Zebel’s blood burned with her book. Fashioning ambient prana—for she had no silver cord—into a gauzy cloud of elemental fire and water came as second nature. Overcoming the kost’s unnatural defenses proved somewhat more difficult, but her pride demanded the effort.
“Mortals!” she complained. “However much you exalt yourselves, compared to me you’re just a sham god’s split personalities.”
Fallon stalked toward her. The brittle skin clinging to his bones resembled nothing so much as the pages he’d burned. Stone tiles frosted and cracked beneat
h his withered feet.
“Unwitting you prophesy,” he said, vain as ever. “As the Souldancer spawned lesser bearers of her name, so has the Righteous One brought forth the Zadokim. You and they are faces of the same moon—one eternally dark; one reflecting perfect light.”
Zebel sniffed. “You want a prophecy? This cosmic farce is unraveling, and when its weight is lifted from my father’s shoulders, his vengeance will leave everything mortal, divine, and in-between praying for oblivion!”
“All the more cause to hasten the Void’s triumph, which the Zadokim might delay. Thus would Shaiel offer his Right Hand in friendship to the Anomians.”
“Those locusts? I’d rather be leeched!”
“Zadok’s law binds them not,” Fallon said. “Shaiel would have their allegiance.”
Zebel folded her arms. “He can offer them his Left Hand, then.”
“Lykaon treats with the Night Gen. Such is Shaiel’s Will. Do you defy it?”
Tzaraat judged her with milky eyes. His chisel-toothed maw said nothing. Repelled by the loathsome priest, Zebel swept out of the room and onto a walkway under a bright sun in a black sky. The air smelled of industry, and drifters swarmed between glass and steel towers.
I built this. I kept it running while they schemed and burned incense and hunted goatherds. I thought myself a queen, but yet again I play servant to upstart mortals.
Zebel’s wrath turned from fire to ice. She stripped to the waist and spread her wings. Stiff joints creaked. Fickle winds howling through manmade canyons stirred black feathers.
I’ve served lesser beings long enough, she thought as the currents carried her aloft. It’s time I made them serve me.
Glossary
Atavists: A sect of Zadok worshippers denounced as heretical by the Nesshin. Atavists believe that all creatures are fragments of the one divine Nexus. Individual existence, which Atavist doctrine calls an illusion, is responsible for all suffering, sin, and conflict. Thus, the chief spiritual aim of every Atavist is to return to a state of oneness in the Nexus.
Bhakta: The lowest rank of Shaiel’s priesthood. The literal translation is “retainer”.
Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) Page 38
