by Sarah Hawke
That sense of purpose—of obligation—was ultimately what made them special. They weren’t mercenaries seeking coin or hapless noble scions hoping to prove themselves in war. They were criminals and orphans and vagrants who had been cast away by society and reborn in Escar’s holy light. Whatever sins they had committed in their past lives had all been erased through service and sacrifice.
They were the Guardian’s Templar—and Darenthi’s only chance at salvation.
“Come,” Kraythe said, clapping Northam’s shoulder again. “We have a war to plan.”
He led the man down the winding steps into the main keep, though for the moment, they avoided the chapel and the great hall. The two men had a great deal to discuss before Kraythe spoke to the rest of his men, and time was of the essence.
“By the gods, sir, you can’t imagine how badly my stomach has been twisted into knots since you left,” Northam said as he closed the door of the unused officer’s quarters behind him. Even today, almost twenty years after Gareth’s Stand, the Templar had more rooms than they could fill. This one was almost completely bare aside from a bed frame and old furniture, but it would give them the momentary privacy they required.
“I have a pretty good idea,” Kraythe said with a tight smile. “You’ve always been a worrier.”
Northam snorted and crossed his arms. “So the last Ashellion is dead,” he said. “Gods, I’m not sure if I should be pleased or mortified.”
“Thedric is gone, and the last vestiges of the old Darenthi will die with him,” the Lord Protector said. “The Guardian has not led us astray. His rebirth is finally at hand.”
Northam let out a long, slow breath but remained silent. He had harbored reservations about this plan from the very beginning, but at this point, even he couldn’t deny the results. Escar had shown them the way, and everything had worked out just like they had planned.
Almost.
“You said very little about Rohen in your letter,” Northam said quietly after a moment. “I don’t understand what happened.”
“I’m not certain I do, either,” Kraythe lied. He turned away and paced across the room toward the lone flickering lantern hanging on the western wall. “He wasn’t in his chambers when I came to retrieve him. I searched as long as I could, but the Chol moved quickly.”
Northam’s expression wilted. “Guardian guide his soul,” he whispered. “He was a good kid—a good man. We’re going to need more Templar like him to survive this.”
Kraythe nodded soberly. At one time, he’d had high hopes for the half-elf as well. Against all odds, Rohen had grown into a fine Templar, and with the power Kraythe could offer him, the young man surely would have grown into a powerful paladin as well. Kraythe had almost told Rohen the truth when they had bumped into each other in the halls just before the attack, but the Godsoul hadn’t allowed it.
The boy was dangerous, the strange, dissonant voices of the Godsoul said into the Lord Protector’s mind. His heritage made him a threat to our plans whether he realized it or not.
Kraythe closed his eyes. Many other innocents had died in the Hold as well, and he mourned their loss. Their sacrifice was tragic but necessary, as difficult as that was to accept. The people of Darenthi didn’t know the truth about their beloved king—the man they hailed as a hero was little more than an impudent oaf who had inherited every bit of his father’s stupidity. King Gareth was the one who had signed the Sevenfold Accord, abolishing the Faceless and ultimately dooming the Templar. And like his father, Thedric would have led the kingdom to ruin.
Only you can save Darenthi from the flame. Only you can open the gates to the Pale and set us free.
“Once the news of my gift spreads, we’ll have more recruits than we can handle,” Kraythe said, opening his eyes and turning back around. “It will be up to you to separate the worthy from the weak.”
Northam frowned. “Training them will take time, sir.”
“The Foundry is forging more golems as we weak. My daughter will ensure they reach the front lines as soon as possible. With their support, Galavir will be able to hold Rimewreath for months.”
“I certainly hope so,” Northam murmured. “What of the Lord Vigilant?”
“Unfortunately, Caelan was every bit as stubborn as I feared,” Kraythe said. “I have higher hopes for the Lady Seeker, but ultimately her cooperation makes little difference. The Sanctori will fall in line once they see the power the Triumvirate has given me.”
“And if they don’t?”
Kraythe narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Don’t tell me you’re getting squeamish now, Donnic. We have far too much work ahead of us.”
“I’m not squeamish, sir. I am simply…concerned,” Northam said. “The Chol aren’t like men. They’re not predictable. We can’t—”
“You don’t think I know that?” Kraythe snarled. “I was butchering Godcursed wretches at Palegarde and Harabel when you were barely old enough to hold a sword!”
Northam recoiled and lifted his hands. “I-I apologize, my lord. I meant no offense.”
Kraythe stared at the other man for a long moment before he finally groaned and let out a weary breath. He knew he was like a father to most of the men here, and he had always taken that responsibility seriously. But ever since he had absorbed the Godsoul, he could feel his demeanor changing…and his patience thinning. They were standing on the precipice of a new era here, and they simply couldn’t afford any more mistakes.
“I understand that this isn’t easy, believe me,” Kraythe said as warmly as he could. “But we’ve planned this for months, and there’s no turning back now. The Guardian is counting on us to restore his warriors to their rightful glory.”
“I will do whatever is necessary, my lord,” Northam said. He held out his hand, and a sphere of golden light blazed into existence in his palm. “How long do you wish to wait before you share this power with the others?”
Kraythe regarded the sphere and smiled. He could feel the divine energy coursing through him and into Northam just as surely as he could feel Jessara drawing power all the way north in the Galespire. Long ago, back before the Avetharri elves had turned against the gods who created them, such power had been commonplace. An entire pantheon of gods had created a thousand Conduits in their image, each capable of empowering their own army of the faithful. If the Tel Bator could harness even a fraction of that ancient glory…
A new dawn breaks for your people, the voices of the Godsoul said. The sins of the past will be cleansed, and the righteous shall take their place at our side.
“There’s no reason to delay any further,” Kraythe said. “We have licked our wounds long enough. Assemble every Templar in the great hall at once.”
He smiled as a searing ball of light materialized in his own palm. “The time for our rebirth is finally at hand.”
3
The Galespire
For the first time since Rohen had left Griffonwing Keep over a week ago, he didn’t wake up at the first rays of dawn. The curtains in their suite were thick enough that the light of the morning sun barely seeped through, and his mead-induced hangover kept him buried beneath the sheets until he heard the girls giggling about something at the breakfast table. They didn’t actually finish eating and cleaning up until halfway through the morning, and between the contentment of a full stomach and the comfort of freshly washed linens, he was a little surprised they made it outside before noon.
He passed Brela most of the few silvers he had left, and she insisted he get Sehris away from her establishment before anyone figured out what was going on. Rather than argue the point, he counted his blessings and led the girls out of town and across the bridge as quickly as possible. The trip through the farmlands south of the Winding Tear was considerably less perilous than their trek across the Sundered Spine, and they made good enough time that they almost compensated for their late start.
The frozen fields surrounding the Galespire were as stark and haunting as ever; they were
an endless white canvas unblemished by a single house, farmstead, or guard tower. Even the road was hard to follow with the heavy snow and the near total lack of markers or guideposts. Thankfully, getting lost was almost impossible—the massive tower itself was visible on the horizon from many miles away. Anyone could find it if they really wanted to.
The reality was that almost no one did.
Ostensibly, the Galespire was a part of the duchy of Vaswyth, not Torisval, though it wasn’t as if the tharns of the realm ever tried to actually govern the Keepers or their tower. For all intents and purposes, the Lord Vigilant ruled the Jagged Coast, and everyone else was content to leave his Keepers to their grim, dangerous duty. At best, the common folk viewed the Spire as an academy where those cursed with magic could live in peace and safety; at worst, they saw it as a prison where sorcerers could be quarantined like lepers.
Neither view was completely right or completely wrong, at least not in Rohen’s experience. During his Templar training, he had come here every three or four months to have the artificers repair or enchant equipment. He had gotten to know several of the Keepers and their charges, and Zin and Sehris had typically filled him in on all the relevant gossip during his visits. One truth they had all learned was that the Spire was a very different place now than during the era of the Seven. Fear of another sorcerer rebellion stoked and aided by the Crell Sovereigns had made the Keepers paranoid, and the lack of an organized leadership among the sorcerers had opened the door to some truly horrific abuses of power. The tradeoff, in theory, was that the Lord Vigilant could no longer hold the threat of Purging over the heads of unruly channelers.
Unless Lord Kraythe gets his way. For all we know, he already has.
Rohen’s rage swelled at the thought. Everything about the Faceless transformation was barbaric beyond comprehension. Supposedly, the original golems had been created from volunteers who willingly pledged themselves to the Watcher’s service, but Purging had inevitably become a punishment for severe disobedience. If the Keepers really did plan on slaughtering sorcerers en masse again, Rohen had no idea how he or anyone else could stop them. With the Chol on the loose, the tharns and the common folk alike would eagerly support the creation of a new Faceless army—especially after they heard about Rimewreath. The Pact Army annihilated, General Galavir killed…
Is this what Kraythe wanted? Fear and chaos to justify the Purging?
Rohen’s anger kept him warm all the way to the edge of the wilted woodlands that loomed in the shadow of Dragon’s Reach. The sun was already threatening to sink beneath the horizon behind them, but Sehris assured them that her safehouse wasn’t far.
“Are you sure that staying here is a good idea?” Rohen asked for at least the fourth time. “If other Keepers know about this place, it won’t—”
“We’ll be fine,” Sehris said with a weary sigh. “I told you: I’m friends with everyone else who knows this place, and I honestly doubt anyone will be here anyway.”
He grumbled under his breath, unconvinced. This was mostly his own guilt talking; he felt uncomfortable letting either of them out of his sight. But at least here they would be closer than Tor’s Crossing, and frankly he would almost certainly be in more danger than they would. He was the one about to walk into the den of the wolf; he was the one who was about to accuse the Lord Protector of the Tel Bator of high treason and wanton slaughter.
Rohen continued trying to steel himself right up until they finally reached the cabin. Aside from being located inside a dead forest that had allegedly been burned to a crisp by one of the last Avetharri Wyrm Lords centuries ago—and aside from the fact that most Darenthi thought the withered pines were haunted—the cabin looked quite cozy. It was essentially a two-story “L” that could have easily been mistaken for a ranger’s cabin or a hermit’s homestead, especially with the nearby lake providing fresh fish and water.
“I told you there wouldn’t be anyone here,” Sehris said as she hurried up to the door. She opened her hand, and a sudden burst of Aetheric energy leapt from her fingertips into the brass handle. “We always ward the door before we leave just in case.”
“The secret lives of the Keepers,” Delaryn whispered, shaking her head. “If the Sanctori ever found this place…”
“They won’t. No one ever comes out here. Most people think the lake is haunted, too!”
Rohen nodded and let out a heavy sigh as he turned back to Delaryn. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, taking her hands in his gauntlets. “If anything strange happens, the two of you should head back to Tor’s Crossing. At least there you can—”
“We’ll be fine,” she said through a tight smile. “Just be careful. Please.”
Rohen leaned down to kiss her. They had said their piece last night, but talking about leaving was a lot different than actually leaving. Now that he was standing here in front of her, a part of him wanted to head north to the Tear and sail east to Galvia. But then Zin’s lifeless face swam before his eyes, and he knew what had to be done.
“Guardian guide both of you,” he said, holding Delaryn’s cheeks in his hands and smiling down at her.
“Ilhari kyorl dos, abbil,” Sehris told him. “We’ll be here waiting.”
Rohen took one last look at the two most important women in his life before he forced himself to bury his fears, turn his back, and walk away. He glanced back over his shoulder more times than he could count even after they had vanished into the cabin.
“Shit,” he hissed as he returned his gaze to the distant Spire and began jogging south across the frozen plains. “Let’s get this over with.”
***
The Spire of Shadows didn’t look any more welcoming up close than it had from afar. Plenty of other structures in Darenthi were more expansive, but none were as imposing—or as bloody tall. Rohen had never felt more laughably miniscule than standing here at the base of a five-hundred-foot tower housing a few hundred Keepers and thousands of sorcerers.
The only other buildings anywhere in sight were the stables for the horses, but he didn’t spot a single groom or farrier outside. There weren’t any Keepers standing guard by the main entrance, either, though that was less surprising. The Galespire didn’t exactly need doormen.
Taking a deep breath, Rohen climbed the short staircase up to the massive, rune-inscribed double doors. According to legend, the ancient Avetharri had infused this structure—Gûl Ostaraad in the Elvish tongue—with energy drawn from one of the gods they had overthrown. This “Godsoul” had acted as a fount of near-infinite power for generations of Wyrm Lords and their supplicants, and at least some of that energy still coursed through these stones. The Galespire was thought to be indestructible, and the Tel Bator priests believed that whatever remained of the Godsoul fount also kept the Chol at bay.
Rohen had no idea how that was supposed to work, exactly, but it was one of the reasons that sorcerers were kept here. Sticking a few thousand channelers in any other structure would have practically been inviting a Culling.
All right, well…here goes nothing.
“Guardian’s grace be upon you,” Rohen called out as he pulled back his hood and raised his right gauntlet in greeting. “I am Rohen Velis, Templar of the Guardian. I seek an audience with—”
The stone beneath his feet shuddered as the doors slowly rumbled open enough for him to enter. Bracing himself for the worst, Rohen clenched his teeth and stepped inside. The entry foyer was as oppressively cavernous as he remembered, and he couldn’t help but shiver in discomfort when he saw the giant, disembodied eye wreathed in flame inscribed upon the floor. The Eye of the Watcher was meant to judge all who entered the Vigilant One’s hallowed halls, and Rohen swore he could feel something looking at him when he stood here…
“Sir Templar,” a youngish man with a smoothly shaven face and nervous-looking gait said as he approached. He was clad in silver plate mail with a gray-blue Keeper cloak draped over his pauldrons. “We, uh…we weren’t informed about any more vis
itors.”
“I know, but I carry an important message for the Lord Protector,” Rohen said. “Is he still here?”
The Keeper shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He took a griffon and flew south this morning.”
The air rushed out of Rohen’s lungs so quickly he almost collapsed. This morning. After all this, he was too late. He was too fucking late…
Clenching his teeth, he swept his eyes around the rest of the foyer. The lack of men outside wasn’t surprising, but the lack of them inside was a little unusual. Every other time he had been here, the foyer had been filled with loitering acolytes.
“That’s…unfortunate,” Rohen said eventually. “I bring vital news from the Wreath. I need to speak with the Lord Vigilant immediately.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” the Keeper said, shaking his head. “As of this morning, Lord Vigilant Arinthal has closed the Galespire to all outsiders until further notice.”
Rohen frowned. “What? Why?”
“It is not for me to say, but the Lord Vigilant’s orders were quite clear. I apologize, Sir Templar, but I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave?” Rohen growled. “Are you serious?”
“I-if you are in need of a mount, I might be able to—”
“Come now, don’t be a fool,” a sultry female voice said from the spiraling staircase on the left-hand side of the foyer. The speaker wasn’t visible yet, thanks to the long shadows, but the rhythmic clack of metal heels on stone punctuated her words. “The Guardian’s Templar are always welcome in the Galespire.”
Rohen’s blood went cold. Gods, not her. Anyone but her…
Rohen turned, a lump of pure dread rising in his throat as he watched a tall young woman clad in the red-gold vestments of a Sanctori Inquisitrix step into the foyer. Her bright amber eyes locked onto Rohen, and for a moment, he considered spinning around and sprinting out the door.