The symbolism wasn’t lost on her. The tempest mirrored the changes she would soon have to weather, perhaps as soon as a few days. Circumstances pulled Kira in multiple directions, even more now than at any other time since her birth.
Balm had tried to stem the tide by beginning to train Kira in all the processes needed to run Gilead’s sprawling divisons and managing the Commission with the idea of Kira someday heading the organization. Diplomacy and restraint, however, weren’t Kira’s strong suit. With that necessary component absent from Kira’s nature, Balm had had little choice but to put Kira through Shadowchaser training.
And Kira had excelled. Balm allowed herself a self-congratulatory smile. Kira was one of those rare individuals the Commission coveted: inherently powerful, intelligent, tough, and even stubborn. Though there were Commissioners who handled each aspect of a Chaser’s training—physical, mental, or magical—Balm had personally overseen Kira’s development.
The head of Gilead showed no favoritism, and her foster daughter’s training had been no different. A Shadowchaser’s training was rigorous out of necessity, a forewarning of what they would be required to face in the field. Despite careful screening, some candidates failed or were killed even before they reached the Crucible, the rigorous final performance examination before candidates claimed their Lightblades. Kira had passed every standard Chaser test. She had also passed extra ones Balm had devised. She had survived the Crucible, completing the trial faster than any Chaser to date. Kira Solomon was the best and the brightest the Gilead Commission had to offer, and Balm would make sure that she remained that way.
Balm crossed back to her desk. A small cedar chest sat atop the blotter, a foot wide and about the same deep, weathered with age and constant use. It contained her most private and precious possessions: memories. In a few hours the chest would be on its way to Kira, and Balm could only hope that her daughter would be able to survive the consequences of opening her own personal Pandora’s box.
A soft knock announced Lysander’s arrival. Her assistant entered, his slight, androgynous features golden in the lamplight. He carried her ceremonial robe, woven of Light magic and gossamer material. The robe was actually older than she was, a hooded affair worn by the Balms of Gilead since time began. “My lady, it is time.”
“A moment longer.” Her fingers skimmed the edges of the chest. Times like this, she felt every one of her years. Felt the selfish regret of the choice she had made, anger at the choice that had peeled away her right to live her life for herself instead of living it for the good of everyone else.
She picked up a bundle of letters, bound with a magical cord woven of her own hair, and placed them into the chest before pressing the lid into place. Kira would have to use her magic to open the chest, more magic to untie the cord and read the letters. Balm could only hope her message got to Kira before the memories did.
Lysander hung the pale robe on a jutting stone nodule as Balm approached the interior grotto planted centuries ago on the north side of her office. “Shall I deliver the chest while you are away?”
Balm stared at the indoor garden, the wild vines, overgrown trees, and assorted plants. The verdant display helped to soothe her sublimated soul, a soul that needed growing things, loamy soil, and bright sunshine. “No. I will need to add one more item to it when I return.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
Lysander helped her disrobe, kneeling to remove her soft leather slippers before helping her settle the pale blue material onto her shoulders. It could barely be called fabric—it seemed spun from light itself, shimmering with every movement she made and breath she took.
Lysander reached for the silver chain about her neck to unfasten it, but Balm wrapped her hand around the locket it supported. “No, I would leave it.”
“Mistress, you requested the pendant be placed in the chest you are sending to Kira,” he reminded her in gentle tones. Lysander was never harsh, except for when she needed him to be, when he shared her bed.
“So it shall,” Balm replied, unpinning her hair, then arranging it about her shoulders. “First, I would have her know of this, if she’s able to read the pendant.”
“Of course, Mistress.”
Her robes shimmered with the emerald sheen of growing things as she touched a dark green tendril. The vines slithered in acknowledgment. At her silent request the verdant strands parted to reveal a thick arched door of golden-red wood so old the tree it had come from was now extinct. Reinforced with heavy bands of black iron, the door bore the symbol of a moon, perfectly split between Light and Shadow with a wide band of apparent emptiness between them.
Balm called up the power that had been conferred on her when she assumed the leadership of Gilead. Wrapped in softly glowing blue light, she placed her right palm over the Light half of the moon. A sliver of elemental magic edged the entry as the portal formed on the other side.
Lysander pulled the heavy door open with one hand. Everything and nothing swirled on the other side, a fog that shimmered and shifted color and shape. Balm could feel the buildup of pressure as two other portals were opened into this area outside of time and space, a place that neither Light nor Shadow controlled. At the half-moon, when neither Light nor Shadow dominated, each aspect could, and most times would, come together to parley.
Balm paused at the portal’s edge. This was the part she dreaded the most, and it had nothing to do with the freezing temperature of the swirling fog. No, the miasma served as purification as well as transportation, cleansing her mind, body, and soul and enabling her to assume the mantle of the embodiment of Light before meeting her sisters. Each time she made the journey she felt as if she lost a piece of herself in the process, another bit of detritus that had made up the person she was before she became Balm. Not that she could remember much about what her life had been like before. She hadn’t seen many summers before the Commission chose her to be the Vessel of Light, and she’d been Balm for many lifetimes now.
In keeping with the law of Universal Balance, she gained as well as lost. One benefit was acquisition of the knowledge of those who had gone before her, those who had also been given the name Balm, the women—and a few men—who had accepted the privilege and responsibility of an office far greater than any human position before or since.
She had asked others to sacrifice in the name of Light. Some she had ordered to lay down their lives, and parts more precious. This was but one of many sacrifices she herself had made over the centuries, one of many more she’d still have to make.
“Wait for me,” she murmured to her assistant before stepping into the breach. Her body seized up as if she’d gone from boiling lava to a pool of arctic water. The vortex worked like a sieve, painfully separating the physical from the spiritual, filtering out everything but that which made her the Lady of Light. Finally, just before it became too much to bear, she broke through.
The “world” was gray, formless, and void. No up or down, no north or south. Balm couldn’t even call it a world; to do so would imply that she actually was somewhere. This was nowhere and everywhere, the All and the Nothing overlapping.
A darker shade of gray heralded the arrival of Solis, the Lady of Between. Solis always arrived second—whether Balm arrived first or last—as if to prevent Light and Shadow from being alone together.
Solis reached up to push back the heavy gray cowl, revealing features identical to Balm’s, but older. “Greetings, Balm of Gilead, Lady of Light.”
Balm pushed her own Light-infused hood back from her face. “Greetings to you, Solis, Lady of Between.”
She had no sooner given her greeting than a dark fissure appeared in the swirling gray, and Myshael, the Lady of Shadows, stepped through. Composed of Chaos as she was, Myshael moved with the frenetic energy of a child in the throes of a sugar rush, darting about in a multidimensional game of tag.
“Greetings, sisters,” she said as she pushed back her inky black hood, her features constantly changing from child to cro
ne and everything in between. “Now that the welcome is over, shall we get this party started?”
There was nothing party-like about these conferences, no matter who called them. That Myshael had been the one to request this meeting made it even less so in Balm’s opinion. “Why did you call this meeting, Lady of Shadows?”
“You know why. Kira Solomon.”
Balm had suspected as much. The knowledge still didn’t sit well with her. “What about Kira?”
“You have both had Kira in your company, and I have not,” the Lady of Shadows complained. “I have had as much a hand in her creation and development as either of you. I will have my time with her.”
Balm kept her expression as neutral as she could, but it took immense effort. She knew something like this was bound to happen sooner or later, ever since Kira’s path became difficult to see. Balm’s time of training and forging Kira had come to an end.
“Tell me, sister, exactly how do you expect to meet with Kira? She will not willingly go to Shadow, and you cannot force her.”
“To borrow an old line, I have my ways.”
“Which are?”
“Come on, Balm of Gilead,” Myshael chided in a little girl’s voice. “You aren’t the only one who can play things close to the vest. I will keep my ways to myself. You will know soon enough.”
Balm’s voice remained impassive with effort as she turned to Solis. “Are you going to act as an intercessor for Myshael, and attempt to bring Kira Between again?”
Solis gave Balm a look of reproach. “You, of all people, know that Kira will do as she wills. If Kira wants to meet our Sister of Shadows, you cannot stop her. Balance must be maintained.”
Balm swallowed her frustration. She’d worked hard and long to shelter Ana’s daughter, muting the darker aspects of Kira’s nature. She would not turn Kira over to Shadow without a fight.
“Balance,” Balm said, turning her gaze to Solis. “That’s all it’s about with you, isn’t it?”
“That is what is,” Solis replied, “no matter how the pendulum swings.”
“And now the pendulum swings to me,” Myshael announced, her voice smug.
“What do you intend to do?”
The Lady of Shadows cocked her head. “I will continue that which has already begun,” she said, as if Balm should have known the answer already. “Kira Solomon is a seeker of truth, one who desires empirical evidence as well as faith. I simply will stand as the Shaitan did before his public relations firm did him a disservice. Let us see if her faith remains unbroken after she finds the truth she has sought so long. Let us see if she turns away from you and instead turns to me.”
“Kira is opposed to Shadow,” Balm stated, her voice ringing with certainty. “She will resist you.”
Myshael stood before her, her features now a mirror image of Balm’s. She placed a hand on Balm’s shoulder. “Then, I will do as you have done, sister, and make her an offer she cannot refuse.”
Balm batted Myshael’s hand away. As the embodiment of Light, having even a touch of Shadow was too much. “Threatening her life will not make her agreeable to you,” Balm cautioned, though she secretly dared Myshael to try. “It will have the opposite effect.”
“I don’t want your Shadowchaser dead, Balm of Gilead. She is much more valuable alive, full of all the power she possesses.”
The words were the ones Balm wanted to hear, but she didn’t like Myshael’s tone. She cared even less for her eager expression.
Solis moved between the two women. “Universal Balance must be maintained.”
“I know the Law, dear sister,” Balm retorted. “I do not need you to remind me.”
“Do you agree?”
“My agreement is not required.” Balm prepared to leave. “Kira Solomon has Free Will. Despite how we may scheme and plan and prepare, Kira will walk the path of her choosing.”
“You are so sure of your power?”
“No. I am sure of Kira.”
And with that, Balm was done. Without a word further, she felt for the tendril of Light that anchored her to her true self, and allowed it to wrench her back into space and time and corporeal form.
The return journey was even more painful. Light simply did not like being contained; forcing that essence into a fragile mortal shell was excruciating.
Balm spilled out of the vortex and back into the grotto, gasping as her lungs began working again. Lysander was there to catch her, guiding her to a small smooth boulder that functioned as a natural stool before shutting the portal door. Balm dug her hands into the undergrowth, letting the cool herbaceous life force bring her back to herself.
“Mistress?”
Balm opened eyes she didn’t realize she’d closed. Lysander knelt before her, a cup of tea ready. She accepted his assistance, allowing him to bend her forward and press the rim of the cup to her mouth. Together they managed to pour a couple of drops between her lips. Its healing properties seeped into her, easing the shock of returning to the physical plane. “Thank you, Lysander. How long has it been?”
“Only a few hours, Mistress.” He leaned over her, his silver eyes concerned. “Your journey seemed more difficult this time.”
That he noticed was enough for Balm to rouse her energy, take the cup from him. He was her most trusted assistant, but she couldn’t be weak, even in front of him. “The journey is always difficult, whether it is the first time or the four thousandth.”
“Of course. What else can I do for you, Mistress?”
He always asked, and she always said nothing—but not today. “Bring the chest to me,” she requested, not trusting her ability to stand. “Be sure to put the gloves on first.”
He quickly crossed the room to her desk as she sipped more of the restorative tea, or at least made the attempt. Her fingers shook so badly that more spilled down her chin than down her throat. Soaking into her skin worked as well, although somewhat more slowly.
Lysander was back, settling the chest onto her lap before setting the teacup and saucer aside. Balm attempted to pry the lid off, but he had to help her. She did manage to take off the pendant, inelegantly pulling the silver chain over her head, snagging a few strands of hair in the process. She’d worried the locket wouldn’t survive the trip beyond, but it had come through.
She dropped the locket into the chest, wrestled the lid back atop the box. She pressed her palms flat against the sides, creating a simple magical lock that would require Kira’s touch ability to open.
The task done, Balm looked up into Lysander’s worried face. “Take this to Kira.”
“Mistress, surely you need me now more than Kira needs this?” Lysander protested. “Perhaps in a few hours—”
“She needs it now!” Balm pressed the chest into Lysander’s hands. “It is imperative that Kira receives this as soon as possible. Don’t delay.”
Lysander accepted the chest, rose to his feet. “Then, I won’t take the plane.”
His form shimmered into Light, brightened, and slowly disappeared.
Balm settled back into the greenery, finally allowing herself to grimace with pain. Lysander was right, the journey back hurt more than usual. She’d have to recuperate longer this time. She could only hope that she’d given Kira all the tools she needed.
Though it had been more than a thousand years, enough instinct of her former life remained. The former dryad dug her fingers and toes beneath the plants, deep into the rich soil, needing the cool green energy to restore her. Sighing in relief, she closed her eyes, and rested.
Chap†er 3
I don’t know about this.”
Kira stood in front of her bathroom mirror, staring down at the array of mineral makeup pots on the brown granite countertop. Usually she didn’t have more than a passing acquaintance with makeup, but tonight was a special event.
“You’re going to be fine,” Khefar assured her, his voice wafting to her from the bedroom.
“Fine? I’m in a flippin’ dress!” The good mood she’d
been in earlier after their workout was gone, replaced by a strong case of nerves. She tossed the makeup brush onto the counter. The other guests at the gala would have to be content with seeing her in eyeliner and lip gloss. It was bad enough that she had on something the salesclerk had assured her was a dress, but seemed more like a shiny, gold-colored silk slip, even with the three-quarter-length sleeves of its matching shrug.
“It’s a very nice dress,” Khefar said from the doorway, a black tie dangling loosely in his hand. His gaze traveled slowly over her, head to toe, then back again. “It compliments your coloring and shape beautifully. It is as the clerk promised.”
“I don’t have anywhere to hide my Lightblade,” she told him, trying to neither complain nor blush at the compliment he’d given her. Khefar may have been over four thousand years old, but he was still a man. She knew that for a fact. And if she forgot, he had several inventive ways to remind her.
She watched Khefar sling the tie around his neck. The tuxedo-style shirt matched the color of her dress. His onyx cuff links glinted in the overhead light as he worked the tie into a bow. He looked like one of the many upwardly mobile men going to a premier gala and fund-raiser. His hair, a swath of braids down the middle with the sides of his head shaved, gave his debonair air a dangerous slant.
Adding to the edgy look was the leather rigging strapped across his shirt, a side holster capable of holding a gun and his blade, the fabled Dagger of Kheferatum. He turned slightly, allowing her to view the gilded hilt of the mystical blade imbued by the god Atum with the power to create and destroy. She had once wielded the blade, briefly, in order to save Khefar from a Shadow Adept named Marit.
She still coveted the blade’s power, especially in the dark of night when the stain of Shadow that lived inside her whispered dangerous temptations.
“You said you would be fine with carrying your Lightblade in your purse,” the Nubian said, smoothing the tie into place.
Shadow Fall Page 2
