Caleb brought up the rear, watching the men ahead of him. Char walked alongside Simon, then Endre, then him.
The men were wary of him now. He could feel it in their distance and in the way they avoided his gaze when they looked back. Even Endre was now avoiding him, and he seemed like a pretty cheerful man.
They feared him.
He didn’t want to care about that they thought. He hadn’t cared before. Sometimes he missed that part of his old life, the way he could close himself off from everyone and everything. But now that his heart had been unlocked, he couldn’t do that, not without resealing it.
How he wanted to do that right now. To be cold again.
Instead, he ignored the men and redoubled his senses, feeling for any shadows. After passing three more rooms, he felt it again, that same, frigid feeling.
“Stop.” His voice bounced across the room.
Simon, who had just about entered the next room, halted. So did Char and Endre. They all turned and looked back.
“Another shadow—wait, two more.”
“Which direction?” Simon was the least afraid, but there was still a trace of fear clinging to his essence.
Caleb closed his eyes. He could now sense all three men, their souls like wisps. He pushed past their fear, past the room, feeling along. There.
He opened his eyes and pointed toward the doorway Simon had been about to enter. Simon moved away, along with Char. They pressed their backs up against the coffins lined along the wall. Endre did the same on the other side, leaving the room open from Caleb to the doorway.
Caleb lifted his hand. His fingers trembled. He squeezed his hand shut until the shaking stopped, then opened it again. He saw Victor in his mind, his body on the floor, his eyes wide with fear. His lungs constricted and his mouth went dry. What if he failed again?
Focus.
He stared at his hand.
This is no time to freeze.
Somewhere in another part of his mind, he could sense the shadows drawing near, summoned perhaps by the presence of the men he was with.
Move.
Years of training and learning to turn off his fear triggered, allowing him to move his hand. As he brought his hand across his body, he centered on the light from his palm.
I need to save these men. I need to stop these shadows.
Heat burst across his chest, up through his arm, and to his palm. Light flashed and the tip of Veritas emerged from his palm. He brought his hand across his body, pulling the blade from his mark until he closed his hand around the hilt.
Seeing the light of Veritas loosened the tightness in his chest.
I can’t save everyone.
He brought his sword up to his face, his frosty breath turning to a warm fog near the blade.
But I will do what I can.
The shadows came flying in from the northwest doorway. They stopped abruptly a couple feet from where Caleb stood. He planted his feet, his attention on the shadows. He would not lose sight of either of them. Not this time.
They hovered above the ground, their smoke-like bodies swirling in the pale light. Red eyes stared at him, the light from Veritas white pinpricks in their bloody gaze.
“You do not belong here.”
The one on the left hissed through a small gap that formed inside the smoke. The other one lifted clawed hands.
Before either could make another move, he sprang across the room and thrust the sword into the one on the right. Its screams shattered an urn that sat in the corner, scattering ash into the air.
The other shadow soared to the other side of the room and dove for Simon and Char.
With a twist of his wrist, Caleb pulled the sword out of the first shadow and brought the blade down on the back of the second. It froze, its claws in the air. The smoke turned to swirls of black and Veritas rattled between his hands.
The shadow screamed, the sound bouncing inside his skull.
He brought all his strength down on the blade. It sank into the smoke. The smoke-like body began to pull into the blade. From the corner of his eye the second shadow drifted along the wall toward Endre.
Without removing the blade, Caleb stepped to the side, placing himself between Endre and the other shadow. Sweat poured across his body as Veritas drained his strength. “Word! Help me!”
A ball of energy formed inside his chest. He concentrated on it and sent it flying to his mark. Veritas exploded in brilliant light.
The shadow evaporated into nothing.
Without blinking, Caleb pivoted around and caught the other shadow, now a couple feet from Endre. His blade sank again into the smoke body. His hand shuddered and darkness formed around the edge of his vision.
He panted, pushing all his energy into the blade. Veritas brightened again, and the shadow shrank and churned until it disappeared into the blade.
With a gasp, he fell to the floor, darkness spreading across his eyes, his body drained. He could barely breathe now. There was nothing left inside him, not even the heat of his power.
Veritas glowed dimly beside him, as if it too were sapped of its strength.
He closed his eyes. The floor was cold and hard against his cheek. He just wanted to lie there and never move again.
Draw on me, Son of Truth.
Caleb opened his eyes.
Draw on my strength.
He wanted to shout, “I don’t know how!” but his mouth would not move. Instead, he whispered, “All right.”
The men moved around him and whispered, but he was too tired to concentrate on what they said. Simon knelt down beside him and said something as well.
He closed his eyes again. Seconds later, the barest warmth trickled into his chest. It spread slowly across his body, to his arms, to his legs, to every limb.
After a minute, he groaned and pushed himself up. He lifted his hand, his fingers still clutching Veritas. He moved his hand across his body and pressed the blade back into his mark.
Then he breathed, letting the Word’s strength continue to penetrate his body. The men talked around him, but it was only a buzz inside his mind.
A minute later, he turned and crept across the floor to a wall and, using the ledge on which a coffin lay, he pulled himself up.
Simon placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Caleb barely nodded. “Yes. But exhausted.” The Word’s strength continued to trickle into his body. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to move on. To take another step. And another.
Simon lifted his arm and placed it around his shoulder.
Caleb didn’t fight him. Instead, he accepted Simon’s help.
“We’re not far from the Monastery. There, you can rest.”
“Only for a short time.” Even talking hurt. “We can’t stop for long.”
Simon didn’t answer him. Instead, together they walked across the room, and into the next one.
Up the stairs they went, leaving behind the pale light of the catacombs. The darkness pressed down on them, the silence unnerving.
Seconds later something went thump.
“I’ve found the door.” Simon’s voice reverberated in the stairway.
There was a soft clink, then a click. A crack of light appeared ahead.
Simon pushed the door open, his other arm still around Caleb. The door groaned as it swung, the hinges rusty from months of disuse and no maintenance.
He felt almost strong enough to stand, but didn’t want to risk it, not yet. Instead, he rested in the strength Simon provided, and in the warmth still trickling through his body.
So this was what it meant to lean on the Word, to lean on His strength.
Of course, he was leaning on Simon too.
Simon led him and the other men along the dark hallway. The floor was made of warm colored wood. Up to half way, t
he walls were paneled with the same wood, then some kind of smooth plaster. Metal sconces hung along the walls with candles long since burned out. Farther down the hall there were doors on either side, all open, with natural light inside.
Simon entered the first door on the right. The room was small and simply furnished. A single bed, a desk pressed up beneath a window, and a chest. Simon led him across the room to the bed.
Caleb sat down. The bed was firm, almost rigidly so. It was exactly how he would picture the living quarters of a scribe and he briefly wondered whose room this was.
Endre and Char stayed in the hallway, talking amongst themselves.
Simon took a seat at the desk. “I’m afraid I cannot offer you anything else.”
Caleb waved a hand at him. “I’m doing better.”
Seconds ticked by. “So . . .” Simon began. “Your sword, it drains you?”
“Apparently so. Like I said, I have had very little experience with Veritas.”
“Veritas?”
“The sword from my mark.”
Simon nodded thoughtfully. “Your sword means truth.”
Char ducked his head in the door. “I don’t think we’re alone.”
Caleb looked at him. “What do you mean?”
Endre joined him. “We hear someone. At the end of the hall.”
He frowned and looked at Simon. “I don’t sense any shadows.”
“It could be one of the twisted. But why would they be here?”
“I don’t know.” Caleb stood, his legs firm. “Let me check.”
Simon started to protest, but he held up his hand. “As you know, I was once an assassin. And as such, I know how to get into places unseen.” He looked at Char and Endre. “Stay here with Simon.”
They nodded and backed away from the door.
Caleb walked past them and out the door. He waited just outside the room and listened. At first he didn’t hear anything, then there it was—a voice.
Silently he made his way down the hall, bypassing other small rooms similar to the one he had left. He turned a corner and spotted a foyer ahead, with a staircase to the left and the main door in the front. He followed the wall, listening to the voice. It was coming just off the foyer.
As he drew near the front door, the voice disappeared. Whoever it was, they were in the room to the right.
He inched up to the doorway, his body flush against the wall. He could hear nothing on the other side.
He pulled out the dagger strapped to his chest, testing it in his hand, making sure his grip was firm. He had no intention of killing anyone, but he would defend himself.
Slowly, Caleb looked around the doorway.
A man stood in the middle of what looked like a large study or office. Rows of shelves lined the walls, each filled with books. A window stood against the far wall with a desk in front of it.
The man turned. He had long, pale hair that hung down his back. His skin was also pale, and so tight that Caleb could see the outline of his skull beneath it. He wore an expensive white silk shirt and black pants with soft leather boots.
“Caleb Tala.” The man smiled, stretching the skin across his face even more, his blue eyes feral. “I’ve been expecting you.”
A warning went off inside his mind. He checked his grip on his blade. “Who are you? And how do you know my name?”
The man laughed. “Oh, I know who you are. You were once the left hand of the Temanin Empire, the personal enforcer of Lord Corin himself. An assassin without equal. But you’ve been banished from your country, or so I’ve heard.” The man lifted his hand as if to inspect his fingers.
Caleb noted the black glove he wore. “You still have not answered my questions.”
“Come in and we shall talk.”
He stepped inside the room, his senses on full alert.
“My name is Malchus. And I believe we have more in common than you know, Guardian.”
He gripped the dagger. “What do you mean?”
“We both have power. I use mine to gain more power. At one time, you did as well. After all, what good is power if you lose it?”
His eyes narrowed. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he was starting to get a notion . . .
Malchus paused. “Let me ask you something. You had everything a man could want: money, land, a title, and women. So why did you throw it all away? For that?” He pointed at Caleb’s hand.
He glanced down. All he had was a dagger in his hand.
“I know about the mark on your palm.”
Caleb slowly looked up, his hand tight around the hilt. “What about my mark?”
“I know what you are. I know you took out my servant Velyni in Azar. And recently you banished one of my shadows that was patrolling the coast. I would even dare say you’ve just done the same to my shadows in the catacombs. Am I right?”
A chill rushed through his body. Caleb stared at Malchus. So he was Velyni’s master. The one she was willing to betray. And he was the one who controlled the shadows. Everything fell into place. Malchus was a—
“Shadonae.” Malchus finished. “Then you’ve heard of us.”
“Yes. I’ve heard of you.”
“But we are not who you think we are.”
“I know you’ve killed a lot of people.”
Malchus sneered. “You cannot possibly throw that accusation at me. You, who have killed so many yourself.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Wrong!” He pointed a finger at Caleb. “A person does not change. Not at the core of his being. You can change your behavior; even convince yourself you have changed. But you are still a murderer, Caleb Tala.”
Caleb took a step forward. “No, I am not. The Word forgave me.”
“Debts can never be erased.”
“Yes, they can. Mine were.”
“So you follow the Word now, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you have no desire to do wrong? You’ve changed that much?”
He opened his mouth, then paused. Did Malchus know about the struggles he had? The dark longings that sometimes echoed inside of him?
Malchus dropped his hand “You see? Like I said, we are more alike than you know. We are both dark on the inside. There is no escaping that. And we are both powerful. So let me ask you, why do you use your power for a god who wants everything from you? In the end, you are only denying yourself.”
Caleb narrowed his eyes. “So how exactly how are we alike?”
Malchus smiled. “Let me show you.” He began to pull off his glove.
Caleb checked his dagger, ready for anything.
The black glove fell to the floor and Malchus held up his hand. Instead of a white mark across his palm, it looked like a scorch mark, like he had held his hand over a fire and burned it until the skin had blackened and crisped.
“Do not be deceived by the appearance. With this mark I can tear the veil that divides our world from the unseen one and bring forth beings under my control, those things you call shadows. Did you know you can do the same?”
“I banish shadows. I do not call them forth.”
“It is simply a door we use, whether it is for bringing them into the world or pushing them out.”
“But you are a Shadonae.”
“I was once an Eldaran.”
Caleb froze. Wait, what? That wasn’t possible! He couldn’t be. Malchus used that blackened, shriveled mark to kill people. He could do no such thing.
But there were similarities between them, in a dark, twisted sort of way. His mark was white and filled with light. Malchus’s was dark and filled with death. He banished shadows. Malchus brought them forth. He saved people. Malchus killed them.
The only difference was their choices.
He chose to love and guard manki
nd. Malchus chose to use them.
He followed the Word. Malchus did not.
Malchus smiled. “Ah. Now you see the truth. We are not that much different, you and I—”
“You’re wrong.” Malchus opened his mouth, but Caleb cut him off. “You said that a person could not change, that at the core of his being, a man will be who he always was. But a person can change. I know I have, at my core. Yes, I still struggle with the darkness. But it is not a part of who I am. Not any more. I had a choice. And I chose. I chose to follow the Word. I chose to become a Son of Truth. We are nothing alike. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You can change too.”
Malchus snorted. “Are you trying to convert me, Guardian?”
“No, I’m giving you one last chance.”
His neck and shoulders tensed, his eyes icy cold. “Before what?”
“Before I have to—”
There was a shout, and a streak of color and a body. It flew past Caleb before he could react. The body slammed into Malchus, knocking him to the ground.
There was a flash of silver and a gasp.
Malchus gurgled and blood spilled out his mouth.
“You took my family!”
Caleb raised his hand. “Char, don’t—”
The dagger fell. “My children!”
Another gurgle sounded across the room and Malchus raised a shaky hand. “You cannot kill me—”
“And my wife!”
Blood pooled across the wood floor, a crimson puddle beneath Malchus. His eyes went wide. “This-this can’t happe . . .” He coughed, his mouth red.
Caleb held up his hand again. “Char! Stop!”
Char paused and looked back. “No. I listened long enough. You were going to let him live.”
Malchus gave a small shudder and his head slumped to the side, his fingers grasping weakly at the air. Then his fingers stilled and his watery eyes grew distant until there was nothing left inside.
“No, Char. I was going to—”
Simon came rushing into the room. “What in the—” He stumbled to a stop, his hand to his mouth. “Dear Word. Char, what have you done?”
Char stood up, blood splattered across his shirt and face. “I did what had to be done. Cargan said no trial, no sentence. And now we know they can die, just like any of us.” He wiped his hands across his pants.
Heir of Hope (Follower of the Word Book 3) Page 37
