“Who protects you, Papa?”
Kyel opened his mouth. Then closed it again, not having the faintest notion how to respond. He thought hard about it. He couldn’t tell Gil the truth: that no one protected him. That he was going to die in a matter of days. That Gil would never see his father again. That these scant moments would be the very last they had. Kyel swallowed back the tears that tried to come and fought the sorrow off his face. He couldn’t break down. His strength was the last and best gift he could ever give his son.
“Who protects you, papa?” Gil asked again.
From some deep place of courage he didn’t know he had, Kyel managed to dredge up a wavering smile. “That’s what magic’s for.”
“Will there always be magic?”
Another unfortunate question.
“I hope so.”
“I hope so too.”
With a smile, Gil threw his arms around Kyel’s neck, wrapping him in a squirming bear hug. Kyel grimaced against the grief that clawed at his chest. He gathered his son in his arms and hugged him tight, cherishing the feel of him.
Into Gil’s soft curls, Kyel said softly, “You need to know how much I love you. And how proud I am of you.”
The little body wriggled in his arms. In a voice muffled by Kyel’s thick shirt, Gil said, “I love you too, Papa. You’re the best Sentinel in the world.”
Kyel pulled the door softly shut, cutting off the steady sounds of Gil’s snoring. He squeezed his eyes closed against a stab of sorrow. It wasn’t fair. A little boy shouldn’t have to grow up without a father. He reached up, rubbing his eyes. He took a deep breath. Then he strode away.
He made his way through the warren of passages that formed the living quarters of Om’s Temple. He rounded the last corner that led to the main entrance and there drew up. He hadn’t expected Arvel to be waiting for him. But he wasn’t surprised to see him either. Avoiding eye contact, Kyel asked, “You’re going to get him to his mum, right?”
The god-priest flashed Kyel a dour smile. “Of course. It is the least we can do. Don’t let your thoughts be preoccupied with your son’s welfare. Gil will be taken care of.”
Kyel nodded, his shoulders sagging.
“Are you ready?” The smile on Arvel’s face was fixed as if etched there. “The Temple of Death is expecting you.”
Kyel paused. “I would like to ask a question.”
Arvel’s waxen smile slipped just a fraction. “You wish to know if the gods are real.”
Kyel was surprised the man had anticipated his question. Nevertheless he nodded, figuring he was owed the truth. Arvel raised his hand, beckoning Kyel to follow. He led him through a doorway into a spacious chamber dominated by a table surrounded by many chairs. Kyel took a seat, while the cleric settled across from him.
Clasping his hands together, Arvel informed him, “There is only one goddess.”
“Which goddess is that?” Kyel sat back in his chair, bringing a leg up.
Arvel smiled blandly. “She has gone by many names since the beginning of the world.”
“So why the secrecy?” Kyel pressed.
“Because.” Arvel shifted in his seat, his face becoming very serious. “The temples are not religious entities, as you’ve been raised to think. They are entirely political. The temples are institutions created to defend humanity against our most ancient of all adversaries.”
“Mages,” Kyel guessed.
Arvel nodded. “If not for the temples, mages would dominate the earth, oppressing the vulnerable masses. They’ve done so in the past, and they would do so again. For millennia, the temples have resorted to the one force on earth capable of challenging the power of magic: the power of faith.”
Kyel frowned. “Then how do you perform your miracles?”
“Each temple was entrusted with magical artifacts. And from these artifacts, we have achieved the “miracles” that buy us the faith we need. There is only one temple that does not need to rely on artifacts of magic.”
“And which temple is that?”
“The temple of the One True Goddess. The Temple of Isap.” The smile on Arvel’s face stagnated.
“What of the Catacombs?” Kyel pressed. “The Atrament … none of that is magically conceived?”
“All of that is Isap’s domain.”
It all made perfect sense, Kyel realized. Arvel’s story explained so many inconsistencies he’d always wondered about. But the story did have one gaping hole. Leaning forward in his seat, Kyel pressed, “Then what of Xerys?”
Arvel slouched, his body seeming to deflate and collapse in on itself. “Xerys does, in fact, exist. But he is not a god.”
Kyel frowned. “Then what is he?”
Arvel’s glasses had slipped down his nose. Pushing them back up, he explained, “Xerys was the first mage, the most beloved of all of Isap’s creations. He was born of magic and tasked with protecting all things magical. But Xerys became too enamored by what he guarded. He came to believe that creations born of magic were elevated above those who were born mundane. He decided it was the place of humanity to serve magic, and not the other way around. This belief was contrary to Isap’s vision of her creation.
“So Xerys earned Isap’s displeasure. He was banished from this world and imprisoned in another plane: what you call hell. Contrary to what you’ve been taught, Xerys is not the source of evil in this world. Evil is a construct, nothing more. But Xerys has no compunctions against using what we call ‘evil’ to his advantage, if doing so advances his own interests.”
Kyel stared at Arvel, feeling physically shaken. Every tenant of faith he had ever nurtured had just been broken on the wheel of truth.
The implications were vast. They redefined his very purpose.
“So … Xerys’ Servants are not demons?”
Arvel’s wan smile returned. “Oh, they are most certainly demons. They are creatures of spirit who, like Xerys himself, are forbidden from ever entering Isap’s domain. They have chosen to side with Xerys, so have been banished to spend eternity in the company of the master they serve.”
Kyel nodded. “And what of the Hellpower?”
Arvel smiled morosely. “The Hellpower is the type of magic that exists in Xerys’ realm. It is the antithesis of the magic field.”
So many answers … and yet each answer spawned a host of new questions. Kyel wondered how many years it would take to get to the bottom of it all. If there was, indeed, a bottom.
He sighed wearily. “I don’t understand. What are the Servants trying to accomplish? What are they looking to gain?”
Arvel shrugged, as if the answer should be obvious. “Xerys wishes to be freed from his confinement. That is the goal his Servants work toward. And that is the reason why we must oppose him. For, if Xerys is ever freed, humanity would be once again pressed into servitude by those with magic, and mages alone would rule the world.”
Arvel looked down at the tabletop. “Zavier Renquist plans to halt the Reversal of the magic field using the Hellpower, just as he tried to do a thousand years ago. Only, to release enough of it, he would have to open the Gateway wide enough that it would free Xerys from the Netherworld.”
Kyel stiffened as the priest’s revelation sank into his chest like icy fingers groping for his heart. His first thought was of Gil. He’d told his son he was a protector. And he could think of nothing in the world more important to protect.
“What must I do?” he asked.
For the first time, Arvel’s smile grew beyond bland, into something eager. Something sinister. “Stop Renquist. Stop his Servants. Before they gather enough power to release Xerys into this world.”
28
Transformations
A bleakness encased Naia’s thoughts as she stared down at the ever-changing surface of Athera’s Crescent. Her gaze followed the flowing patterns that moved across it, patterns that reminded her of ripples propagating across the surface of a lake.
The day was bright, and a gentle breeze cooled her s
kin, but nothing could take her mind from the myriad possible destinies she had witnessed in the Nexus. Nothing could alleviate the sorrow that filled her heart. It didn’t matter which future destiny held in store for her. All seemed equally bleak.
Naia sighed, pushing her hair back out of the way of her vision. Turning away from the Crescent, she made her way back into the castle. She found Quin in his room, stuffing the last of his possessions into his pack.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
He nodded, flashing her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Naia clasped her hands together as she moved across the room toward him. The new shadow staff he’d carved was leaning against the wall beside the bed. She had forgotten to ask if he’d ever finished it. Reaching out, she laid her hand upon the staff, stroking its wax-polished surface. Instantly, an ominous feeling jolted up her arm, making her flinch. Naia retracted her hand quickly. It was the same feeling she’d gotten the first time she’d touched the staff. The thing felt evil, although Quin kept insisting it wasn’t.
Moving away from the staff, she asked, “Why are we going to Rothscard?”
Quin tied his pack closed, giving the cord one good, last tug. “Because you said we need to find Kyel,” he said as he swung the pack over his shoulder.
Naia’s brow furrowed. “And why do you think Kyel will be in Rothscard?”
Quin shrugged. “Because it’s the logical place for him to be.” His eyes roved quickly over the room, scanning to make certain there was nothing left behind. He took the staff into his hand. “Being a Sentinel, Kyel would want to be near the Front. But the problem is, we’ve been here too long. So the Front’s not likely where we left it. With the Reversal so close, Darien’s had no choice but to push southward. And any invading army would make Rothscard their target.”
“Then the war’s already begun. What are we going to do?” Naia whispered, feeling that they’d already failed before even setting off.
Quin appeared to think about it a moment. “Well, we’ll just have to improvise,” he said, holding the door open for her.
The demon-dog yawned enormously. The beast gazed across the fire at Darien with a questioning look. Its ears perked, its head whipping toward the darkness. The hound rose to its feet, emitting a low growl, intent on something outside the circle of light. Then it relaxed, apparently satisfied. The thing turned in a slow circle, then finally settled back down, closing its baneful eyes.
Darien ignored the thanacryst, his attention riveted on the journal in his lap. He held his head in his hand, fingers clasped around a fistful of hair. His eyes scoured the page as if his life depended on the information contained there. Or another life, far more precious. All he knew was that the secrets unlocked by that journal were so important that Edric Torrence had lain down his life to pass them on.
He didn’t look up at the crunch of approaching footsteps.
“Report,” Darien ordered, flipping a page.
“Warden, we have only four crates of salted fish remaining and one cask of wine,” his quartermaster informed him.
Darien glanced back over the last solution on the page. Absently, he said, “The fish should get us there. Ration the wine.”
“Yes, Warden.”
As the officer moved away, Darien tried repeating Edric’s calculations in his head. He quickly found them too much to keep track of. With a grunt of frustration, he reached into the cloth sack at his side and pulled out a pot of ink and a writing stick. The elam wasn’t sharpened, but that took only a moment’s thought to fix. Unrolling a strip of parchment, he started scribbling, altering magnitudes to account for his own abilities.
The resulting number was extraordinary.
“It’ll work,” he muttered.
“What will work?”
Twisting, Darien looked up into Azár’s face. She’d come up quietly behind him, and even the thanacryst hadn’t alerted him to her presence. The beast appeared to be sleeping, its hind foot twitching just a bit. He set the parchment down and stoppered the ink pot.
“I think I know how Edric did it,” Darien said, closing the journal and slipping it back into its embroidered cover.
Azár sat down beside him, her face lit by interest. “How is that?”
Darien reached up and scratched the whiskers on his jaw, wondering if he had enough understanding of Edric’s methods to replicate the experiment. He decided the risk would be minimal. “It’s complicated. I’m still trying to figure out why he felt flight was so important. I’m not sure what the value is, other than mobility. Still, I’d like to try it.”
Azár turned away from him and gazed into the fire. The light of the flames danced across her face, tracing her features in acute contours.
“I do not like this idea,” she said at last. “What if you turn yourself into a bird and cannot change back?”
That had been his first concern. Which was why he’d worked out both the forward and reverse solutions several times, just to make certain. “That wouldn’t happen,” Darien assured her. “The energy works out the same in both directions.”
He stood up and wandered around the campfire to the demon-hound. The beast sat up on its haunches, its tail thrumming against the ground. Darien ran a hand through its matted fur, giving the thing a good scratch behind the ears.
“I could try it. See what happens,” he suggested. “Master Edric obviously thought it was import—”
Azár cut him off. “This is not a good idea. It sounds dangerous.”
She had made up her mind, he saw. And when Azár was adamant about something, she wasn’t likely to relent. Which meant he would have to test his theory without her consent.
Darien gave the demon-hound one last, good scratch. Then he closed his eyes and wrenched as hard as he could on the magic field, forcing it in, filling himself as quickly as he could to the point of saturation.
“NO!” Azár screamed, realizing too late what was happening. All at once, a writhing mass of blue flames enveloped Darien, erupting into an inferno of blinding brilliance. She leapt to her feet, lunging for him—
A flurry of wings beat against her face, knocking her backward with a startled cry. Panicked, she screamed her husband’s name.
But he was gone. Only a shimmering afterglow of his image remained in his place.
A shrill screech pierced the air. Azár’s stomach lurched in fear. She scanned the line of trees, desperately seeking the source of the cry. Then she saw it. There, silhouetted against the stars, the dark form of a bird rose swiftly into the sky.
“Sayeed Zakai!” she screamed, terror in her heart.
She staggered backward over uneven ground, eyes pinned on the falcon as it darted across the thin crescent of the moon. Another shriek pierced the night.
She heard footsteps sprinting toward her. Then Sayeed was at her side, eyes wide and alarmed.
“Are you harmed? What happened?” he demanded.
“There!” Azár cried, pointing upward, her finger tracking the bird’s motion. It gained height in slow circles, finally leveling out to skim gracefully overhead.
“How…?” Sayeed gasped.
The demon-hound gazed upward, cocking its head.
The falcon let out another piercing screech. It dipped its wing and veered away, soaring toward the mountains in the far distance.
“He is not coming back!” Azár cried, watching the bird flapping away.
Face aghast, Sayeed gripped her arm, his fingers biting into her skin. The cries of the falcon grew fainter. Soon its form was lost, slipping away into the shadows of the night.
Tears streaked Azár’s face. A feeling of futility washed over her, weakening her knees. Sayeed caught her up, supporting her weight against him.
“He will come back,” he reassured her. But she could tell by the sound of his voice that he was just as concerned as she.
“What if he doesn’t remember he is a man?” she whispered.
They stood by the fire as the night dr
agged on, measured by the moon’s slow progress.
They stood there until the coals grew cold and dawn broke across the horizon.
When Sayeed finally picked her up and carried her back to her tent, Azár didn’t resist. She was barely aware of the officer settling her into bed, arranging her covers over her with the care and compassion of a brother. Feeling more alone than she could ever remember, she fell into a deep and troubled sleep.
Azár awoke to the feeling of a hand stroking her face, running tenderly through her hair. She opened her eyes and stared up through the shadows of the tent into the solemn face of her husband.
Her anger exploded. She shot bolt upright. Enraged, she swept out a hand, striking Darien in the face.
He closed his eyes, accepting the blow.
His lack of response angered her more. Azár hauled her arm back to strike him harder. This time, he caught her wrist.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Her anger melted. Sadness took its place. Exhausted, she collapsed against him.
Kyel followed the white-robed priest down the long hall toward the main sanctuary of the Temple of Death. Through the glass, he could see the temple’s garden courtyard, with its long reflecting pool bordered by manicured shrubs. White and black swans plied the pool’s waters and roosted along the shore. Beyond the garden rose the verdigris dome of the sanctuary, replete with its hundreds of stained-glass windows.
The sound of their footsteps rang off the walls as the gangly priest he followed turned a corner and led him down a narrow hallway that ended at a door. Kyel waited as the young man knocked twice, then opened the door and stepped back. Kyel nodded his gratitude and moved past, turning to confront the old man who sat waiting for him behind a wooden desk.
At the sight of him, Luther Penthos rose to his feet. Kyel walked forward, taking the priest’s hand. Strangely, he felt none of the hesitance he’d always experienced before in the presence of this formidable man. Luther Penthos was Naia’s father, as well as the High Priest of Death. Kyel’s history with him had been turbulent. He had no reason to think that had changed.
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