“So Zorun attempted something unusual?”
“These few lines here are not from our ways. They remind me…of the Triune.”
Amolia glided closer. She peered down at what Nurzani indicated. “We suspected that Zorun had taken one or two survivors for questioning…” What happened to members of the Triune was of little concern to the mage clans, so long as their fates did not reflect publicly on the spellcasters. “Perhaps one of them escaped.”
“Zorun Tzin, whatever we think him, could certainly handle a priest of the Temple,” the gaunt mage replied with a snort.
“Indeed. Kethuus, you are oddly silent.”
The shadowy figure remained bent by the corpse. “This was Terul, of course, but there’s something odd about him. It feels as if he was slain days ago, not mere moments.”
“The halfwit answered the door; he hardly looked dead then.”
Kethuus grinned mirthlessly. “Perhaps his little brain hadn’t yet registered that fact.”
The other two joined him. Amolia prodded the body with her sandaled foot. Part of Terul’s rib cage caved in.
“He suffered far more than the rest of this place. He was the focus of the attack.”
“The giant would be the least of any prisoner’s problems,” the dark mage responded. Then, shrugging, he added, “But I concur that he was the focus.”
Nurzani emitted a disgruntled sound that brought him to the attention of the pair. “And has no one else considered the even more significant clue before our eyes?”
Amolia’s gaze narrowed. “What is that?”
He pointed near the corpse. “Zorun Tzin has left his staff. That staff is a prize to any mage, yet Zorun Tzin has abandoned it. Why?”
Neither other spellcaster could give him an answer…and that bothered all three so very much.
Oris fretted like a mother as she strode past the elegantly carved twin doors for the hundredth time that day. They remained sealed even from the very guards standing just outside them. The Prophet had not been out of his personal chambers in days, something the gray-haired priestess could find no reference to in all the journals kept by herself and her predecessors. He had never gone into such seclusion, and thus she feared the worst.
“You do yourself and him no favor worrying so, dear Oris,” the voice of Gamuel called. The other senior priest strode down the shining marble corridor like a warrior, which he had been until the Prophet had shown him the light. Gamuel was a little younger than Oris and had not held his post quite so long, but he was every bit as devoted as she. “He likely has good reason for what he does, and if he deems us worthy of sharing in that knowledge when he emerges—and he will emerge, Oris—then you’ll see how silly it was to fret.”
“You would think that he might wish us to know how he is so that we can assuage any concerns of the flock,” she returned. Oris did nothing to hide her love—her physical love—for her master. She had been a beautiful woman when she had first come to the Cathedral, and traces of that beauty remained in her oval face even now. However, the Prophet had only seen her as he had all the rest: as one of his children.
Still, Oris had never told even Gamuel a suspicion that she had about their leader, that his heart had once belonged to another female, one who had been unworthy of him. Oris was certain that this was one of the reasons he had not chosen her when she was young. Now that she resembled more his grandmother, there were a thousand other bitter reasons.
But still she loved him, and like wife, mother, and grandmother combined, she tried to take on whatever she imagined his troubles as her own burden.
Gamuel politely took her by the arm so as not to embarrass her before the guards. “As for the flock, some matters have come up that must be discussed immediately.”
The distraction worked. Oris became the veteran that she was. “The peasants’ army? Has it regrouped?”
“Somewhat, but, as you know, they were just a necessary sacrifice to awaken the people to the fanatics’ true nature.”
Both paused to make a momentary prayer to those who had perished futilely attacking Uldyssian ul-Diomed’s followers. The Prophet had explained that the dead would have an honored place in the teachings of the Cathedral.
Finishing her prayer, Oris asked, “Then what is it?”
“We knew that the Ascenian intended to go speak with the mage clans, the guilds, and probably even the prince, but something happened, and he disappeared, leaving many dead in his wake.”
The priestess nodded gravely. “I had thought it the Prophet—”
“And it may be. He’ll tell us if and when he chooses. That’s not important now. What’s important is that the Ascenian’s people now know he’s missing, and his rabble’s only two days from the gates of the capital even as we speak!”
Oris paused in mid-step. She stared into the broad-shouldered man’s face, seeing that he was not exaggerating. That made her immediately look back at the sculpted doors. “He must know of that! He wouldn’t let them march on the city without doing something about it. He must come out now and tell us what to do next!”
They stood there, even Gamuel—caught up by her declaration—expecting the Prophet to fling open the doors and stride out to ease their troubled minds with some great plan.
But the entrance remained sealed.
Seven
Uldyssian had no notion where he stumbled or even how he had gotten there in the first place. He only knew that he had to keep going. His explosive effort against Malic, with what he had already suffered at the hands of Zorun Tzin, had left him like one of Mendeln’s walking dead.
He was not even certain where he was anymore. Vaguely, Uldyssian noted others on the streets through which he wended. Mostly dark of skin, not light like home. Toraja? Hashir? No…those were in the past. Where was this? Kehjan? Yes, that was it. The capital.
The capital. Who was it he had needed to see here? Not mages. Uldyssian dared not put himself in the hands of mages. At the moment, they were to him as treacherous a lot as the Triune or the Cathedral.
Who else, then? There had been someone. Master Fahin. He had mentioned someone. Who—
A prince. Uldyssian recalled a prince. Amrin? No. Emrad? Ehmad.
“Ehmad,” he gasped. “I need Ehmad. The prince…”
He weaved past shops and places where raw foodstuffs were sold, occasionally blundering into someone. Most of the Kehjani tried to pretend he did not exist, although a couple muttered something in a vile tone as Uldyssian brushed past.
To one who merely glanced at the ragged figure as he traversed the capital’s high-walled, narrow avenues, Uldyssian appeared to be wandering aimlessly. He staggered into one area, then another. Yet even though he himself did not realize it, he headed exactly where he needed to.
The two white horses reared when the stranger stepped out of the shadows before them. Trained not only for the task of pulling a chariot but also to defend the ones riding it, they sent their hooves crashing down at Uldyssian.
But somehow, not one hit. As the son of Diomedes registered the animals’ presence, the horses grew oddly quiet. They stepped back, then waited.
The charioteer, who had been shouting at the beasts, grunted in approval of himself, in the mistaken belief that it had been his efforts that had enabled him to regain control. Behind the soldier, standing with one hand on the rim of the golden chariot, a young, handsome figure in equally resplendent breastplate and metal kilt peered at the cause of the near collision. Rich, dark brown eyes focused on the Ascenian in the path.
Less interested, the charioteer raised his whip to ward off what he no doubt thought a beggar or madman. However, his master grabbed his wrist.
“Prince…Prince Ehmad…” Uldyssian uttered, weaving to and fro at the same time.
“Yes, that is who I am.” The voice was strong and full of the confidence of youth.
“Master Fahin…he said to find you…” Mentally, Uldyssian began to feel more himself, but physically he was exha
usted.
“Master Fahin.” The prince’s expression grew calculating. “Sehkar. Help him onto the chariot.”
“My lord,” growled the charioteer. “It was ill advised enough to take this ride without escort, but to bring this—whatever he may be—so near your person—”
“Do as I command, Sehkar.”
With much grumbling, the driver handed the reins to his master, then leapt out to deal with Uldyssian. The son of Diomedes eyed the man warily but then glanced again at the prince. Ehmad gave him a polite nod that somehow put him at ease.
“Come, you!” Sehkar commanded, grabbing for Uldyssian’s arm. Around them, a crowd had begun forming.
The soldier’s arrogant attitude drew Uldyssian’s sudden ire. He glared at the man, instinctively summoning his power.
At that moment, Prince Ehmad called out, “Treat him with respect, Sehkar!”
The charioteer relaxed his hold. Uldyssian fought down his anger and, with it, the potentially explosive repercussions.
With Sehkar guiding, the pair joined Ehmad. The prince himself assisted Uldyssian up.
“Thank you,” Uldyssian managed wearily.
Ehmad inspected him. “You are no beggar. Your bruises, they seem the eager work of someone. You mention Master Fahin. You knew him?”
It suddenly felt as if the entire world sat upon Uldyssian’s shoulders. “I was there when he…when he died.”
“You—” The noble gave him a tight-lipped smile. “It seems good fortune smiles upon me today to have run across you so accidentally.”
“It wasn’t good fortune. I wanted to find you.”
Prince Ehmad looked around them. “Indeed! I think it best we talk more at my palace. Take us there, Sehkar.”
“Gladly, and with haste,” muttered the charioteer. He cracked the whip and, as the horses started running, tugged hard on the reins in order to make them turn.
The crowds pushed back as the prince’s chariot shifted around. Prince Ehmad waved to the people, who cheered him. Uldyssian could see that their enthusiasm was real. They truly liked the young man.
He wondered how they would feel if they knew who their prince had in the chariot with him.
Sehkar cracked the whip again, then gave out a yell. The horses picked up the pace. The chariot and its riders swiftly left the crowd behind.
But not before Uldyssian caught an ever so brief glimpse of a familiar face among them, a face he had not expected to see.
The brooding face of Zorun Tzin.
HE…
HE…
Inarius had sat in utter darkness in the chambers that he used as the Prophet, sat in the silken chair staring beyond the walls. Staring at a place he had ceased calling home centuries ago.
HE…THAT VERMIN THAT SHE SEDUCED…
He did not wear the guise of the Prophet now, but more or less had resumed his true form. Inarius had no fear of discovery; an army of his acolytes could not have breached the doors, and no one with even the hearing of a bat could have noted a sound within.
ULDYSSIAN…SPAWN OF A FOOL NAMED DIOMEDES…HE DARED DO IT….
Inarius had not moved since his return from invading the mortal’s dream, but now he leapt up, wings spread in glorious fury and arms outstretched in righteous anger at this latest sin.
HE…ULDYSSIAN…HE DARED BRING ME PAIN!
It should not have been possible, but it had happened. During his intrusion into the human’s dreams, Inarius had easily manipulated the mortal’s mind, letting him believe that his powers were no more. He had done it to give Uldyssian the chance to beg for forgiveness, beg for the chance to be one of the angel’s flock again.
But instead of seeing sense, the sinner had dared strike him! Indeed, although Uldyssian imagined that his attack had failed miserably, it had, in truth, seared through Inarius, disrupting for the slightest of moments his very resonance.
For just that brief moment, the angel had been, by mortal standards, dead.
And while Inarius was not mortal, he had experienced the emptiness of a universe without him, and that had shaken his very foundation. Not even in the battles against the Burning Hells had he come so close to such a fate. Oh, he had felt pain before, especially during battles against the demons, but this had been something far different—and the work of a mere human, yet!
Uldyssian ul-Diomed had to be punished for his grave sin. His life had to be crushed, his very existence cursed by all, then, finally, all knowledge of his abilities erased from the memories of the rest of the mortals. It was the least he should suffer for all he had done.
And with him had to go the edyrem. Inarius had considered one method or another of bringing the rest back into the flock once Uldyssian was pacified, but they were tainted with the same filthy traits as Linarian, worse even. Whatever alteration on the Worldstone Lilith had done had created a thing more foul than their son.
Indeed, Uldyssian himself had also altered the Worldstone, and in a manner impossible. Inarius hesitated as he recalled that. One reason he had wanted to turn the mortal to his cause was that he wanted to make Uldyssian reverse the change in the artifact’s crystalline structure. He needed the fool to do it, because every attempt by the angel, who was not only bound to the artifact but drew upon it for his tremendous might, had gone for nothing.
NO…HE MUST DIE…. THERE MUST BE ANOTHER WAY TO HEAL THE STONE…. EVEN IF I MUST START WITH ONLY IT AND NOTHING ELSE IN ALL OF SANCTUARY…
A thousand methods by which to punish the human properly for his transgressions coursed through Inarius’s mind, but each had a fault. They all required the angel to confront Uldyssian directly. He saw no reason for that. Uldyssian was beneath him, not even as worthy as a worm crawling in the ground. There was no need for Inarius to debase himself by such close contact again, no need. It had nothing to do with the unexpected pain; it was merely unworthy of the angel.
But…if it was a task unworthy of him…
Inarius stared at the sealed doorway, then suddenly gestured.
The doors flung open.
GAMUEL, I WOULD SPEAK WITH YOU, MY CHERISHED SERVANT….
The powerfully built priest dropped the scroll from which he had been reading and quickly abandoned his private quarters. He had been doing his best to monitor matters concerning the capital since his conversation with Oris, feeling that the Prophet would expect it of him.
To his further astonishment, he arrived to find the doorway wide open. The guards saluted him sharply as he neared, their spirits revived by their master’s “awakening.”
“Gamuel!” Oris came charging from another corridor. “I was just alerted by a guard. When did—”
“I can’t speak now. The Prophet has summoned me!”
She looked disconcerted. “Summoned you? What about me? I heard nothing from him!”
“I only know that he summoned me, and the summons was urgent,” Gamuel responded with as much patience as he could muster. “Really, Oris, I must go to him!”
The female priest did not argue that point, but neither did she slow. Clearly, it was her intention to join the audience, and Gamuel would not stop her. The Prophet would bid her to leave if he did not wish her there.
Gamuel reached the entrance. Oris followed at his heels and then halted as if striking an invisible wall. She tried to step forward but instead moved back.
The male priest eyed her sympathetically as he continued on. The Prophet had made his will known. This audience was for Gamuel only.
The doors shut on Oris’s disbelieving face. Gamuel forced her from his thoughts. He doubted that she had offended the Prophet in some manner; the master merely had some thought that he believed Gamuel could better discuss alone with him.
What it was, the priest could not fathom.
The golden-haired youth awaited him not on the long, elegant couch where he often rested but in the very center of the chamber. The Prophet stood not in repose but in what Gamuel would have taken for—had it been any other person—pensiven
ess. The Prophet’s hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes watched with impatience the priest’s swift steps.
Gamuel went down on one knee before him. Bowing his head low, he muttered, “Forgive my sloth, great Prophet! I sought to be as the wind but fell short….”
“We all have our failings, my child,” the glorious figure declared. “And so when we fall to them, we do seek to quickly make amends, do we not?”
“In whatever manner I can, I shall! I swear!”
The Prophet touched him lightly on the shoulder, causing Gamuel to look up. “You are a man of many skills, Gamuel. You are one who has also lived so many aspects of life, however short human life is.”
“I’ve gone down…several paths,” the priest agreed. He did not like to talk about his past endeavors, especially those related to his years as a soldier and, on occasion, mercenary.
“And if some paths led you astray from the light, they did also teach you much that helped make you who you are today.”
The master’s words touched Gamuel, who still retained some guilt for events in his past. Each day, he tried to live as the Prophet preached, using the Prophet’s own life as his example.
“Rise, my child.”
The priest obeyed.
The Prophet proudly looked him over. “Good Gamuel, you were once well skilled in the arts of war, especially.”
“A sorry time for me. I try to forget—”
His answer brought a reproving glance from his master. As Gamuel let his head drop, the Prophet quietly remarked, “Lies ill become you. You still practice moves in your private quarters, then pray for my forgiveness. You are yet every bit the warrior that you were when first I found you.”
“I…am…sorry!”
“Why? The Cathedral has its Inquisitors. Are they so different?”
Trying to look dignified, the broad-shouldered priest returned, “Master, you know what I did as a…a fighter. My sins are as great as those of all the Inquisitor guards and officers put together!”
Diablo: The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet Page 72
