Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  Questions plagued Lahar. The angel didn’t give him time to gather his thoughts or think clearly. He felt drunk. But he had skipped the warm glow of a good bottle of wine and jumped right to the confused anger.

  “You should know whom you intend to guard. Marah is Azmon’s daughter.”

  Lahar sucked in air. “What?”

  “She is Marah Pathros, the one true heir of the Roshan Empire.”

  Marah felt drawn to the etching room. Normally, she avoided it. The smells and the moans would give her nightmares, but she heard the screams of the King without a Crown. He was suffering a great pain, and she felt compelled to help. The voices in her head agreed. Marah scurried down the stairs of the tower to one of the lower rooms, where sorcerers clustered around a metal table.

  The sight of the man, chained and bleeding, made her sick. His shoulder was a purple-and-red blotch of blisters. Dura had changed needles many times, leaving the discarded ones covered in blood on her table. Her assistants kept the workspace clean, but etchings were barbaric things. The man screamed through clenched teeth with eyes watering and snot running down his face.

  Marah sensed his spirit growing anemic, as Dura’s did from time to time. She knew at once that the King without a Crown was dying. She approached the table, trying to swallow her nausea at the smells and sights and sounds. Everything revolted her, but she grabbed his leg.

  Closing her eyes, she wrestled with his spirit. Her instincts and the voices guided her. She had no idea how it worked, but she had a trick for helping Dura, and she intended to try it on the man. He went quiet first. Then the sorcerers grew quiet and watched her. She ignored them to wrestle with the man’s soul.

  Lahar drifted in the haze of gray smoke. The archangel floated before him. The white light pulsed and shifted into a strange blue that cast a sad light over the fierce warrior. Lahar felt a terrible tug that made him choke, and the archangel appeared distracted by a sound behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded.

  “You will not die today, my prince. The girl takes pity on you.”

  “It hurts.”

  “Healing always hurts worse. Embrace the pain—it is the price of life.”

  “Help.”

  “Do not fear. You will forget most of this, but remember whom you intend to serve. The girl is Azmon’s blood. She is the future of House Pathros. She is a weapon that no one can control, but every fool in creation will try.”

  “Pathros?”

  “Hold that name in your mind. And be well.”

  The archangel placed a hand on Lahar’s head. Light blinded him. He closed his eyes to shut it out, but it shone through his flesh. The light hurt his eyes and left a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He could not escape the heat. In agony, he flailed while the light invaded his being and boiled away his very thoughts. He became a creature of pain until his body seemed to join the light and become something else entirely.

  Marah watched Lahar’s heart beat again, and his gray color pinked. His eyes shot open. His ribs flexed as he took in a deep breath. He choked at the end of it and sputtered, but when he could breathe again, he eyeballed Marah. She struggled to see him with her better eye. She assumed she frightened him and patted his leg to offer comfort. He flinched instead.

  Lahar glanced at Dura and Larz. “What did you do?”

  Marah said, “I cannot take away the pain. The runes are killing you.”

  “I’m dying?”

  A voice whispered, He will live a little while longer. If he wants to.

  “Your body fights to live. If you give up, so will it.”

  Larz backed away and shared Lahar’s crazed look. “She is a prophet.”

  Dura viciously told him never to say that again. Marah watched them with little interest. The voices had told her such things years ago, but Dura insisted they keep them secret. Marah’s attention stayed on Lahar. She wanted to make him feel better. He should feel better, but he hurt more instead.

  Lahar asked, “Why?”

  Marah said, “You are the King without a Crown.”

  “I don’t want that title.”

  “I must protect you so that one day you can protect me.”

  “You don’t sound like a little girl.”

  “All of my friends are old. Many are older than Dura.”

  “All right, that’s enough.” Dura shooed Marah toward the door. “You’ve done quite enough. We will discuss this later.”

  “Was I supposed to let him die?”

  “I don’t know, child. Give me time to think.”

  “She can lay on hands,” Larz said. “No one since Jethlah has been able to do that.”

  “The temple must never learn of this.” Dura twisted between Marah and Larz, caught between lecturing them both. “You must keep these things secret. You must convince people that they are only runes.”

  Marah asked, “But why?”

  “Because the temple will use you against their enemies.”

  Marah picked her way through the room and returned to the stairs.

  The priests will raise you above all of Alivar’s children and all the kings and queens of the lands. They will force the twelve tribes of man to bow before you.

  Marah listened to the voice as she climbed the stairs to her room. But why?

  The high priestess wants to be the first female prophet. She will not enjoy it when you steal her glory. She will use your power to enrich herself.

  But I will make her understand.

  How? You don’t understand yourself.

  Marah closed the door to the living quarters and opened a window to air out the smell of the inks. She hated the etchings. The odor lingered in the tower for days. It clung to everyone’s clothes and hair and required multiple baths to wash away. In her bedroom, she found a presence. She halted with one foot in the room, terrified for no reason at all. The light dimmed. She was not alone. The voices in her head stilled, and in the strange quietness, she could hear each beat of her heart.

  She had no idea what the new thing was, but it was primal and raw. An intelligence older than Dura’s studied her, and she felt naked before it.

  The King without a Crown was meant to die.

  The whispery voice slithered along her skin and gave her shudders. It was cold and dead and much worse than any of the other voices. Marah peered around, trying to locate the source. In her confusion, she grew fearful. She was alone yet not alone at the same time. Her senses betrayed her.

  You choose a dangerous path, young one. Alivar himself could not walk it, and he was the First among God’s Prophets.

  “Who are you?”

  We know the name of your rune. We know who you are. Judgment. Rectification. Harbinger.

  “You are not sarbor.”

  We are older than the angels, older than the heavens and hells. We thrived before them and will continue long after they become dust.

  “Who are you?”

  We are older than words and titles. No history book records us, yet we are found in all of them.

  Marah failed to unravel the riddle. She scowled at her surroundings, tempted to lash out with runes, but her instincts told her to wait. Fear stayed her hand. Normally, one of the voices would guide her, but she was all alone. She had no idea what to do, and the thing knew it. The presence offered an impression of a cruel smile. She could not see it but felt its pity and contempt.

  The whisper grew faint. Beware the path of Judgment, for it leads to us. It leads to Chaos.

  She waited for more, but the thing vanished. Marah did not like that voice and wondered if she should tell Dura. The experience felt unreal, like a bad dream, yet she knew it was not. Slowly, she backed out of her room. In the main room, with the rocking chair and the dusty smells of old books, she sat in the sunlight and fought her nerves. Her hands and feet shook, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from her bedroom door.

&nb
sp; Awful things awaited her there.

  Lahar lay on the table listening to Dura and Larz debate prophets, temples, kings, and kingdoms. He waited for someone to unchain him or continue etching him, but all the assistants watched Dura and Larz argue about whether Ironwall should be told about the young prophet.

  Lahar asked, “Are you done etching me?”

  Dura scoffed at her students. “Don’t just stand there. Unchain him. Clean him up. Someone fetch fresh water.” Dura turned to Larz. “We will discuss this later. Now, return the inks to the casks.”

  In a short time, Lahar was clothed, bandaged, and alone with Dura. She fussed with his wrappings and studiously avoided eye contact. Lahar’s throat was brittle from screaming. No matter how much cool mountain water he drank, the scratchiness would not ease.

  He sounded hoarse when he spoke. “That is the second time she put her hands on me. I don’t like it. It’s not a nightmare, really. I mean, well, I don’t know what it is. What is wrong with her?”

  Dura said, “She is a Reborn.”

  “She’s more than that. Is she really a prophet?”

  “I am tempted to keep you in the tower.”

  “I am not your prisoner.”

  “If you speak one word of this to anyone, I will punish you. She has enough problems, you understand? I’ll shield her from the rest as long as I am able.”

  Lahar had one clear memory from his ordeal, and it dangled on his tongue, waiting for him to give it voice—a name, a wretched name, that he spat at Dura. “Pathros. She is of House Pathros.”

  Dura stood back. He’d startled her, but only for a moment. She recovered with her hands on her hips and an iron glint in her eyes. The woman kept four or five glares in her pockets at all times. She altered between them the way a swordsman altered thrusts.

  “She is, isn’t she?” Lahar asked. “She’s Azmon’s daughter.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.” Dura leaned toward Lahar. “Who told you that?”

  “I—” Lahar stammered as he struggled to remember the blue light. He recalled a large bluish shape, and they spoke about many things, about his family and his legacy, but Lahar couldn’t pin down the details. The conversation slipped through his grasp. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know what will happen to the girl if you repeat these rumors?”

  “It’s not a rumor.” Lahar knew that much. If he’d had a fever dream, she would have shushed and ignored him. “She is Azmon’s daughter.”

  “Listen, you fool, she is not. Do you understand, or did you drink away all your good sense?”

  “I understand, but—”

  “No buts. We discuss this later.” Dura rubbed her jaw. “Have you any idea how exhausting it is to etch someone? I need a bath and a meal. I need everyone to shut up and let me think.”

  Lahar let his eyes accuse her, but she ignored him. She went to leave, and he meant to follow. She muttered to herself and checked the door.

  “Marah has a dark rune, I think. I’ve tried to identify hers, and I cannot, which doesn’t bode well. Not all Reborns are good.”

  Lahar asked, “Then why do the seraphim protect her?”

  “You would have to ask them. I only do what I’m told.”

  Lahar didn’t like that reason. It felt low, a coward’s excuse.

  Dura said, “Reborns have different kinds of runes. Some are warriors. Some are sorcerers. And like the Runes of Dusk and Dawn, some are light, and some are dark. They are so rare that they are all celebrated, but those of us who study the lineages know the truth. You know the songs about Gorba Tull?”

  “The false prophet.”

  Dura nodded. “He was born under the same star as Marah. That is all I know about her rune. I cannot find any diagrams of Gorba’s rune, so I cannot compare the two.”

  “She has a dark rune.”

  “Maybe. You cannot be superstitious about these things. Runes are just things. It is the intent that gives them power. That is something the priests never understood. They think they can eradicate dusk runes and save the world. Their war priests are the biggest hypocrites in a long line of terrible thinking.”

  “The war priests used fire against me.”

  “Exactly—another kind of fire, different from the kind that I or Azmon use. They call their fire the work of Ithuriel and mine the work of Moloch. As if one burns more than the other.”

  “Their fire burns. I remember it well.”

  “That was Alivar’s argument. The source is not as important as the intent. Wishing another harm is the problem, not the tools one uses to inflict the pain.”

  “What do the priests of Rosh say?”

  “Sornum is the homeland of the old Kassir Empire. Alivar was from Sornum. The Temple of the Eagle is not nearly as strong there.” Dura waved away a question. She could do that, lecture him and control him as though he were a child. “Marah is too young for this. She is too young for their ridiculous trials, and she is too young for the attention. I’m struggling to give the girl a proper upbringing. She needs a real life, not a godhood.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t repeat things you don’t understand. Give us time to teach the girl, and give me time to prepare the king.”

  Lahar huffed. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “When you start saying smart things, I’ll believe you.”

  Lahar left the tower with a mix of emotions—confusion and dread at the things the Red Tower was hiding from Ironwall and elation at being alive. The sky looked bluer. The air smelled cleaner. Aside from the dull throb of his shoulder and the sickness of spent adrenaline in his gut, he thought himself blessed with another day. The idea that the little girl had gifted him with life made him dread the thought of her again.

  Lahar stopped at the stairs and looked back at the tower. How could that little girl have saved him from a bad etching? Joy and fear warred within him, leaving him wary. He needed a strong drink and a nice bath and a clean bed. He rapped his knuckles against the door to the stairs a couple of times and shook his head.

  He’d worry about Marah Pathros another day.

  Dura had given him a series of runes to meditate upon. She claimed they would help him live with the pain, but he preferred wine. The drink did little to dull the pain, but it made waiting it out more pleasant.

  The etching had been a foolish idea. Revenge wasn’t possible for genocide, and the Reborn seemed to have no need of a guardian. If she possessed powers Dura didn’t understand, odds were nothing could hurt her.

  A few terraces down the mountain, he found himself among normal people again. The regular folk selling their wares and the guard changing their shifts offered a pleasant distraction. No albino girls or bad dreams or sorcerer’s games here—only people he understood and could pummel in a fight. When he traversed a few more terraces closer to the Welcome Wench, he could claim to be a king again.

  III

  Marah rocked herself to sleep in Dura’s chair. She stayed in the sunlight although it made her flinch. The light gave her headaches. Her legs were too short to rock the chair on her own, but she solved the problem by tossing her weight backward and building momentum. Without anyone to hold her, she brought her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs.

  The dark voice never returned, but she was not brave enough to venture into her room alone yet. She thought she was alone, but none of the other voices filled her with dread like the other one. She didn’t understand it and wanted to forget the experience.

  Exhaustion sapped her strength, and she slid against one of the armrests as she drifted off to sleep. Healing Chobar and Dura had been simpler than helping Lahar. She wondered if that was because the man wanted to die. He had an emptiness that confused her. She blocked the strangeness by meditating. She visualized the white orb. A real sleep lured her away from sorcery, and w
ithout further thought she slept.

  She found herself in a gray landscape of mists. With a wave of her hand, she banished them and found something worse: a primal darkness. The darkness possessed a solemnness, a presence that reminded her of the strange voice. She knew at once that she didn’t belong in that sacred place.

  She said, “I sense you. Show yourself.”

  A blue light pulsed into being and blinded her. She pulled back her hand and saw Archangel Ramiel.

  “You are stronger than I thought,” Ramiel said. “We find the mist calms people.”

  Marah ignored that. If anyone might help her, one of the angels might. “What is the dark voice?”

  “There are many voices. Some are echoes of the dead. Some are seraphim, and some are shedim.”

  “This was different. This was worse.”

  “I need more information if I am to assist you.”

  “It felt cold.”

  Ramiel considered her for a while. “It might have been one of the recent dead, someone of power—a sorcerer, perhaps.”

  Marah shook her head. That wasn’t it, but she couldn’t explain the texture of it to the angel. Regular voices didn’t make her skin crawl. The idea that an angel couldn’t help made her more fearful. She did not want to hear the dark voice again.

  She said, “I kept the king alive.”

  “Thank you, child.”

  “Where is Tyrus?”

  “He is deep within Nisroch’s domain. And Nisroch shrouds him from the heavens. I’ve caught glimpses of him, nothing more. He marched west toward the aeries.”

  “Is he hidden from the hells?”

  “Yes, but Moloch will find him with the demon tribes.”

  “Will you protect him?”

  “Tyrus has other problems. He chose this path, child. I did everything I could to keep him with you. The man is a stubborn fool.”

  “I protected the king. Will you protect my friend?”

  “You were barely a year old when he left.”