by Kenyon, Nate
Jacob felt like a deer stepping delicately through a pack of sleeping wolves. There were so many things they hadn’t thought through, so many ways the plan could go wrong. Even if they managed to reach the stone, could there be any hope of returning to the portal with their heads still attached to their shoulders?
He concentrated on their immediate surroundings. Something was wrong with one of the trees; a thin, gray thread had wound its way up and around it, entwining itself with the other strands and running through the thickest branch to the top. To his left, he saw another one with gray woven among the light strands. A deeper chill ran through him. The Black Soulstone had spread its tainted ichor through the Heavens.
He prayed they were not too late.
A Luminarei guard emerged onto the boulevard some distance in front of them. He did not appear to be paying them any attention yet. But Jacob veered quickly to the right, leading the others off the road and into the trees, where they had some cover.
He could hear someone else coming up behind them.
They were in a pocket of space with some protection on both sides from the trees. He paused, waiting, with the others. They couldn’t risk moving until the Luminarei passed on the road.
Instead, he heard one call to the other. “You are late. Balzael will be furious if he catches you.” The other said something Jacob could not quite hear. “Better yet,” the first said, “come along with me. I was tasked with finding one more to escort Gealith to the Halls of Valor. She has passed through the courts and the gardens and is in the library, making the final rounds.”
More from the second guard, and Jacob could hear clearly as he came closer. “. . . cut through the gardens to reach the Halls of Valor more quickly.”
“He will see you if you do,” the first said. “Come on. You can be my second; Balzael will be none the wiser.”
The sounds of the two guards moving away made Jacob sigh with relief, exhaling the breath he had been holding. If the map was correct, the gardens were on the opposite side of these trees. If the guards had come this way . . .
But they had not. The Horadrim’s luck had held so far.
Glittering branches of light and sound arched over their heads, the music like a gentle, warm hand against their minds, each pulse of blood synchronized with the notes that washed over them. Before he led them into the gardens, Jacob did a quick head count and came up one short. He did it again, more slowly this time. Seven, including him.
Someone was missing.
With a start, he realized who it was.
The necromancer is gone.
And the satchel, the only way they had to transport the Black Soulstone from the Heavens, had vanished along with him.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Library of Fate
Zayl kept to the cover on the opposite side of the road. The second guard had come from his right, so quickly and so close that the necromancer had been cut off, forced to abandon the others to hide among a much thinner line of trees on the left of the wide boulevard. He had watched, trying to remain still, while the two guards spoke for a moment. He could not risk crossing over, or he would be in plain view. After the guards finished speaking, they began walking up the boulevard, and it was some time before Zayl could cross safely and check on the others. When he had, they were gone.
He had two choices: he could try to follow them, not knowing exactly where they had entered the gardens or how far they might have traveled, and risk drawing more attention to himself and exposing the team; or he could head up the boulevard alone. If he went alone, he could keep to the trees and make his way around the gardens’ edge more freely. If the others were discovered, it would give him a second chance at success.
He had always been better alone.
He could sense Humbart fuming beneath the armor, but at least this time, the skull was blessedly silent. What Zayl was doing would quite possibly lead to the end of his time among the living, but there had been no other choice; if that was his destiny, he must embrace it.
Except the satchel must make it to the Council chamber to carry the stone.
Zayl was not afraid of death, but above all else, the mission must not fail. The Balance between light and darkness had to be maintained. He thought back to another confrontation, when he had come face-to-face with a necromancer named Karybdus, who had believed that the light had become too powerful and that darkness must be brought forth through the demon Astrogha. Karybdus had taken the wrong path, but the concept itself was a sound one, according to the beliefs of the priests of Rathma: maintain the Balance.
Zayl had always fought for the light, but in the depths of his mind, he had wondered what might happen if he sensed that the side of the angels had become too powerful. Would he turn on them?
Now he had the answer. Sanctuary was also a key part of the Balance. If it was destroyed and the High Heavens became dominant over the Hells, the Balance would dissolve into chaos. The murder of a million souls would alter it forever.
He could not allow that to happen.
Zayl began to make his way through the trees along the edge of the wide boulevard, toward the Silver City. He thought of something else: there was no way to know how long Shanar’s magic would last as he moved farther away from her. Right now, he remained cloaked in illusion, but at any moment, he might be left fully exposed.
It was not a comforting thought.
He caught glimpses of the two guards through the branches as he went. They were passing under a gigantic carved arch made of glistening stone. Their conversation echoed back to him, and he sped up to catch as much as he could, his curiosity piqued.
“Providing an escort to the Ascension is an honor indeed,” the first one was saying. “You will receive an audience with Balzael, and if you are lucky, even the archangel of Valor himself may appear. Not many of us soldiers have that chance.”
“I have heard that Gealith is beautiful, although I have not seen her myself,” the second said. “I was tasked to stand guard at the Ring during her birth—alone, I might add. Punishment for failing my second test.”
“Beautiful, yes,” said the first. “But something is not quite right with her. You will see what I mean when we reach the library . . .”
Their voices faded as they disappeared into the columned hall. Zayl stopped where the cover of trees ran out. He would have to cross about thirty feet of open space to reach the arch and the hall beyond it, which was empty now.
“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” Humbart muttered. “You’ll be discovered, lad! Think of the mission.”
But Zayl was already breaking cover, marching purposefully under the arch and into the cool interior space.
He ducked behind a column and looked around him. The wonders he had seen earlier paled in comparison with this: soaring buttresses ran in a seemingly endless line down the right side of the hall, overlooking the gardens, supported by massive columns with intricately carved figures that appeared to move, their outlines drawn with light that glittered like crystal.
Zayl began making his way through the columns, keeping to the edge of the gigantic hall, avoiding the light as much as possible. The air was filled with music so beautiful it made his heart ache for things he had left behind. Salene, he thought, and her face sprang fully formed into his mind, her beautiful, expressive eyes searching his, as if asking him why he had abandoned her. As a Rathmian, he believed that his life would take a path best suited for him and that it would end when it was time and not before. And yet now he began to question fate, wondering if he had somehow wandered off the path he had meant to follow. He saw his mother and father standing on the bow of the ship as it went up in flames, beckoning to him for help. Their deaths had been his fault—he had started the fire that killed them. Perhaps fate had abandoned him, after all; perhaps it had been at that very moment. What if everything had been an illusion? He had dedicated his life to Trag’Oul, the Guardian of Sanctuary, had believed with all his heart in Rathma�
��s transformation to serve the Balance. The great dragon endured as a constellation of stars that spoke of man’s past, present, and future, and all those futures existed only because of the Balance. Light and darkness, the Heavens and the Hells, Sanctuary on the tipping point between them, an equilibrium that must be maintained. Was it all a lie perpetrated by a man who had trained the first of the priests of Rathma in his own madness and hallucinations and then left them alone to a blank future driven by chance?
The thought shocked Zayl. All these many years, he had never truly doubted Trag’Oul’s existence or the mission handed down from Rathma to Mendeln, brother of Uldyssian and the first true convert to the priesthood of the necromancers. The Balance was paramount and must be maintained. It was why he was here, risking his own life. But now it seemed incredible to him that he had rarely questioned the teachings of his elders, never wondered if perhaps Trag’Oul was the fabrication of the deranged mind of a firstborn nephalem lost and broken and pursued by his mother and father to the ends of Sanctuary and beyond.
You know the teachings of Rathma to be true, a small and sober voice in Zayl’s head insisted. Your powers are the proof of it; they have enabled you to peer into the other realm, to call back the dead, to sense the Balance itself in everything. Even Humbart, a spirit he had raised and bound to a skull, was a testament to all he had learned and all that was possible. And yet in spite of this, everything felt like a sham after the curtain had been torn away, a great cosmic joke at his expense, his life a series of wandering pursuits driven by no larger purpose than the delusions of his own mind.
Zayl slowly realized the music had changed, gaining a deeper, more complex background. A heaviness pressed down on his shoulders. He came back to himself with a jerk. What had come over him? He had covered some distance without even knowing it. The two guards were in view again, but luckily, they had not glanced back yet.
They had stopped outside a massive door. Zayl crept as close as he dared and watched from behind the nearest column. He felt impossibly small, insignificant, a speck of dust on the world. Where was Trag’Oul now, at this time of greatest need? Where was his faith?
An angel opened the door to receive the Luminarei. This one was not dressed in armor and was female in general shape, her flowing robes catching the light of her being in gentle curves. Her voice joined the musical notes in perfect harmony, and seeing her was like staring into the sun.
“What is your purpose?” the angel said.
“To accept our calling,” the first guard said. “And lead Gealith to the light.”
“She is waiting,” the angel said. “Fate is open to you.”
The Library of Fate. Zayl’s heart fluttered softly like a bird in his chest. Of course—the library’s influence had fallen over him as he had approached it, fate turning to loss, destiny to chance, as Tyrael had warned them might happen. The High Heavens may affect humans in ways you cannot understand.
The guards slipped past her, into the glowing room beyond. Zayl thought about trying to continue, but the angel remained in place. He would be seen, and it was too close for Shanar’s illusion to hold.
The necromancer glanced down at his hands. The white fire that had coated them was flickering.
Shanar’s magic was fading, and Zayl was out of time.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Gardens of Hope
Jacob looked around in astonishment. They had broken through the cover of the line of trees and entered the most incredible landscape he had ever seen. It went on and on into the distance.
The Gardens of Hope.
Nothing—not even his wildest dreams—could compare to this.
The ground was dusted with flowers made of multicolored light petals. The gardens were not static; the flowers were constantly changing, thick beds of them glowing bright and fading while others grew up in bursts of color to replace them. Crystalline shapes like glittering shrubs sprouted from the flower beds and sent cascades of twisting, curling strands back down upon themselves, living fountains of light and sound. Reflective pools surrounded the fountains, holding the shimmering curtains of light and crystal dust, sparkling like jeweled catch basins.
It was breathtaking. His spirits were lifted as if he had taken flight, the music bringing energy into his tired body until he felt weightless and free. All the dark dreams that had clung to him like spiderwebs, the tragedies of his past, the deaths of his father and mother, and the loss of his own purpose and confidence, slipped away as the gardens caressed his body and whispered a message of love and peace. He was no longer alone and never had to be again; wherever he went and whatever he did, he would carry this place with him. Paradise . . .
“There are great dangers here,” Tyrael said quietly. “Be careful you do not lose yourself forever in the beauty of what you see, what you feel. Be aware of how hope can be lost and turn into despair. Remember that you were never meant to experience this place.”
Jacob was brought back into himself with a jerk, but the feeling of contentment remained with him.
There were other beings in the Gardens of Hope.
Angels moved in the distance, gliding without sound, while others sat motionless on benches among the flowers or peering into the light pools as if they had been there for centuries. None of these angels wore armor; instead, they were clothed in robes the color of morning mist. They were beautiful, elegant creatures suggesting a perfection of form beyond anything Sanctuary could possibly understand.
But no one seemed to recognize or acknowledge the Horadrim. To them, this was a troop of angelic soldiers marching toward the Ascension. Shanar’s magic was holding.
“What are we going to do about the satchel?”
Jacob thought it was Gynvir who had spoken, but he could not be completely certain. The magic did its job, even for him; all he saw was a member of the Luminarei, wings undulating gently.
“Zayl will find his way to the Council chamber,” Tyrael said. “If he does not, we carry the stone back with our bare hands.”
The others were silent. They all knew that carrying the stone without protection meant an agonizing and terrible death. But Jacob found it hard to be bothered by this idea. The gentle music and peaceful surroundings continued to soothe his fears.
Paths of crushed crystal wound through the flower beds and around the treelike growths and pools. In the distance, rising up through the shimmering air, were the thick walls and soaring spires of the Courts of Justice.
He led the others along the path, weaving around hanging strands of living light. As he passed under a tall crystalline growth, a strand of light brushed his head. Warmth spread through his limbs, and he gasped out loud; images of himself as a boy cascaded through his mind, vivid and fresh, times before the rage plague had taken Staalbreak, with his mother and father living peacefully. His father, the constable, had been calm and steady then, the kind of man you could depend on, one who never acted impulsively, who always listened to both sides of an argument before ruling one way or another, and the walls of the town were strong and secure because of him.
Another strand brushed his shoulders. A shiver ran through him. Images of his father turned bloody and dark. Jacob was caught in a web of time and space, with no way out; his father had bred a son who could not escape his past, the rage plague that had destroyed his family only a symptom of something deeper, something more corrupt, a weakness of character that he could not avoid no matter how far he ran.
Jacob felt another soft caress across his cheek. It was like the cool, limp fingers of a corpse. He saw hanged men strung up from the ramparts of Staalbreak and heard his father’s laughter echoing through empty streets. He saw barbarian hordes with runes the color of fire, murder in their eyes as they rushed the town walls, wave after wave. He saw demons take their place as the walls came down.
There was no stopping them and no end to the madness and blood. His people were slaughtered, one by one.
Thin gray webs hung everywhere, draping the li
ght trees in drifting sheets, cascading down like a smothering blanket upon the flower beds. Running along the webs were fat, hairy spiders, their eyes catching the light from the pools, fangs dripping. He glanced behind him, where a pool reflected the horrors in his mind, laying the truth bare. Shanar’s mutilated body was next to his own. There was no hope of redemption, no future beyond this place. He was lost within the suffocating webs.
Jacob screamed.
The shriek shattered the serene beauty of the gardens like an axe taken to a sheet of glass. The Horadrim came to a halt as the angels who had been wandering peacefully or sitting in quiet contemplation suddenly looked their way. Angels did not get physically ill, but they could experience injuries and stress and often retired to the gardens to heal and find a center of peace. These were not likely to be happy with the disturbance.
Tyrael cursed silently to himself. They were more than halfway through the gardens before Jacob had recoiled from the hanging strands as if reacting to a threat. He had known this might happen, particularly in here, where the promise of hope could so quickly turn sour for those who were not prepared to look inward.
Something else was wrong. Tyrael looked more closely. Thin gray tendrils had grown up through the branches of the tree where Jacob stood. They were so delicate as to be almost invisible, like hairline cracks across the beautiful bright lights of the gardens. But they had spread their corruption like a terrible disease.
The stone was here.
The extent of the corruption chilled his heart. The High Heavens were compromised, and he had no way of knowing how long it might take for them to return to normal once the Black Soulstone was removed.
