by T. S. Adrian
He gazed up at the beast, his breath wheezing through clenched teeth. Would his chewed remains and crushed bones mix with Pip in the beast’s belly? It looks hungry. A laugh broke through his lips. Madness? Perhaps. What sane man could gaze into those fiery eyes and remain sound of mind?
A black tongue lashed out between jaws filled with thorny fangs. “The Massster decreesss, ‘One life for one ssservice,’” it said in a deep, slurred tone. “What do you wisssh?”
That was encouraging. Perhaps he would see the sun again after all. He pointed at the door. “Open that wide enough for me to pass through.”
The hammering of each clawed foot on stone drummed through his boots as the beast approached the arch. The muscles on its back swelled as it clutched the bas-relief and leaned into its task.
Precious seconds passed. Nothing’s happening! Could even a beast such as this not open the—Stone grinding on stone filled the chamber as the door parted at a seam down its middle. It’s done it! The beast seized the gap it had made and wrenched the opening further apart. It then returned to the crushed diagram, bent its knees and leaped up into the hole. With a whoosh, the portal closed and vanished.
He was alone in the darkness.
A chilly wind passed over his body and he shivered. Even thousands of years ago, when men had worshiped here, this door had probably remained closed. It had, after all, never been meant for mortals to use.
He groped, his hands waving in the inky black and his boots crunching on glass. Where had they placed the torches? His trembling fingers found the column and the sconce soon after. He removed the torch, still warm to his touch, and ignited it with a spark of ether. The opening the beast had made waited patiently for him. One final glance over the area showed only a pair of gargoyles perched high on their pillars, their scowls flickering by the fire above his fist. He faced the open door, inhaled foul air that had never filled mortal lungs, and squeezed between the stone slabs, the torch thrust before him.
The area beyond appeared to be a cavern hewn out of the rock. Smooth walls rounded above him. On the ceiling a diagram inscribed into the stone showed the position of planets and moons. He took a few steps—and saw it. The voice in the tower had told him what lay beyond the doors, but no mere words had prepared him for the—emptiness.
A vast pit with sheer walls dominated nearly the entire cavern floor. He lowered the torch, but the flame showed only a hand span’s distance below the rim. That was no more than he had expected. Not even sunlight could penetrate such darkness. From deep below, the howls of lost souls called his true name. Come. Join us in oblivion. There is peace here.
The pull of their voices pleased him and he took a step until the tips of his boots hung over the edge. Would it be so bad? No more striving to regain what he had lost. No more pleasing multitudes of the ungrateful. No more disappointments. He teetered forward. Peace at last. Peace…
No!
He turned his back to the abyss. That was close—too close. The voice in the tower had told him not to gaze into the depths of the pit. Now he knew why.
An altar of black stone loomed against the wall, its angles a contrast to the smooth cavern. Between a pair of black ornaments crafted as dragon wings reared a pedestal in the shape of a six-clawed hand. He set his torch on the ground and approached the altar. Using the fingers that weren’t sticky with Pip’s blood, he opened the pouch at his side and removed his box. The instant the box touched the pedestal, its claws clamped on the ornate wood and the dragon wings ignited in flames. Red light flowed through the altar as if it were a slab of volcanic rock with a magma core. None of this was a surprise; the voice in the tower had prepared him for what would happen, just as it had taught him the alien words to speak and the precise time to channel ether.
A draft pulled his robe toward the pit and his hair fluttered into his eyes. Would the voice in the tower arrive as he had promised? He risked a glance at the pit just as a ghostly light rose from the darkness. Was that—? Yes! Lost souls screamed as the glow escaped. The box cracked open, the light slipped inside and it snapped shut.
He stared at the box and waited. “Are you there, Verthandi?”
I am here, a rich, baritone voice responded. You have done well.
The voice in the tower was now the voice in his box. His greatest treasure was his no more.
He gazed at his red hand. He’d done as he was asked, but at what price? His sanity? His compassion? There was still a chance to veer from this path. He could hurl the box into that empty darkness and return Verthandi to where he belonged. The fading plea of his dying conscience demanded it.
I sense your conflict. Tell me your thoughts.
He held his bloody hand before the box. “Look at this. Look at what you made me do.”
I made you do nothing. I merely told you what had to be done, and you complied.
He lowered his hand. “Am I not damned for what I have become?”
The voice laughed, deep, as if he had told a joke. Damned? There are no gods that would judge you. Only the Fate in which you believe. Will you be the master of that Fate, or remain one of its silly little pawns?
He snatched the box from the claws of the pedestal. Had Verthandi just mocked him? He was no pawn! And he would not lose his humanity to the whims of this cruel entity. “I am the master of my own fate,” he said, returning to the edge of the pit. “For years I had thousands of followers who listened to my teachings and loved me, and I will again.” He reached back and made to throw. “I don’t need you!”
And where are your followers now, mortal?
He brought the box before his eyes. His breath flowed over his hand. Mortal breath, weak and failing. Without this box, without Verthandi, what was he? A pitiful clerk named Isaak in a trade bureau, unappreciated and unenvied.
“Will you give me back what was taken from me?”
No, that I cannot do, but I will show you how to accomplish the goals you sought as master of Fate. I have conceived a plan that is sure to succeed.
“Tell me your plan.”
It would mean little to you.
“Tell me or I will cast you back into Abysm.”
There is no need for threats. Shall I speak of a dying baron who will give his palace to his courtesan, and of a special little girl who will be left in the care of an orphanage? Of a noble who will lose a horse race and seek revenge? Of a black sword and red gloves?
“What has this to do with anything?”
Exactly. You cannot see the whole picture. But I can. Before, when I was imprisoned, I could only watch the players. Now that I am here, I can whisper into their dreams and give them ideas they think are their own.
“You can do that?”
Oh yes.
“But how will you help me free humanity from the old gods if I am not to become the master of Fate as I once was?”
You will be even greater. Monarchs will beg your counsel on bended knee. Before you had a few fanatics to follow you. In time, you will have kingdoms and empires cherishing your visions and ideas. I think that suits you better, yes?
He stared long at the box and tried to deny the words. He couldn’t.
“What must I do?”
Leave this place and return across the sea. Go to citadel Roc and join the Innocenti. You must be humble and work your way into their confidence. That will take many years, but I will whisper in their dreams and open for you a path to the upper echelons of their order.
“I can do that.”
Furthermore, as we discussed, you must assume a new name. Your life in Anderholm is over.
“It wasn’t much of a life.” A sigh warmed his chapped lips. “If only I could be Valerious once again, but I suppose that wouldn’t be prudent.”
No one would believe you were once the founder of the Innocenti. If you call yourself Valerious, they would think you mock them. Pick something else.
He pondered a moment. One attempting to reclaim his righ
tful destiny should not choose just any name. This was the first day of his new life, his first step in seizing the fortune deigned him by an assassin’s poison.
What to call himself?
One name stood above all—Demos. It was the name he had used when he first acquired his mastery of the empowered arts. Such pleasant memories! The joys of youth, when all the world had been but an orchard, ripe for the harvesting.
Might be become Demos again?
Perhaps. If any magi from his old fraternity heard that name, having likely not forgotten his so-called ‘sins’, they would be drawn to him as flies to honey, but he wasn’t too concerned. The odds that someone from that age still existed were minuscule. Still, anything was possible.
Yes, he would be Demos once again, but he needed something a little extra, something appropriate, just in case an old adversary crossed his path.
A surname?
Brilliant! He would take the name of a noble house. No magician of old would dare be so audacious. But what surname could he choose? Not an established house; that would attract scrutiny. Centuries ago, he had brought an end to the house of Duke Alonso Azari by slaughtering him and his entire family. He had favored the duke’s rival for a throne that no longer existed. The act had resulted in him being expelled from the fraternity of historians and marked him for death. Hypocrites! Had his mentors preferred civil war, where thousands were put to the sword and villages burned, over a single family? He pushed the bitter memory from his mind. Azari, a good surname—and so fitting. He had ended that line. In keeping with the ancient traditions of the Ash, it should be his for the taking.
A wonderful sensation rose within his breast. A new name, a good name. He was no longer that pathetic Isaak. Today, he would take the first steps to recapture all that had been taken from him.
“I will be Demos. Demos Azari.”
The story continues in:
Beneath the Silver Rose (Shadyia Ascendant #1)
The Penance of Pride (Shadyia Ascendant #2)
Sundered Journey (Shadyia Ascendant #3)
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