She had to chuckle. “Maybe. But that’s not needed. Only a few people need watching closely.”
“You see everyone as a piece on a Dominion board, don’t you?”
Felice began to protest again, but something stopped her. Do I? Are people game pieces to me? She really thought about it for a moment, until she was finally able to answer herself truthfully.
No. But they acted as if they were. If this happened, that person would act a certain way. Another would react differently. So—no, they weren’t all pieces. But they were all predictable.
“I see patterns, that’s all.”
She was glad Izak didn’t reply, leaving her to examine her thoughts.
Felice didn’t know how long they waited. After a while, she had to stand to return blood to her legs. A few moments after she stood, the talon stirred.
“Soon . . .” it rasped.
Now that it had spoken, Felice was aware of a change. A pressure had built, like the air before a storm, so gradually she hadn’t noticed it. A faint, warm breeze wafted up the stairs, laden with the acrid smell of burning wood and scorched metal.
She clutched her dagger tightly, motioning for Izak to stand. He did, and they both watched the talon for a sign. Izak shifted his weight constantly from foot to foot. She could hear him breathing through his mouth, shallow and fast.
The rags stirred. “Come.”
The creature descended the stairs without hurrying, tattered cloth sliding down the treads. At the bottom, it hesitated, hood moving from side to side, as if searching. Ahead was another carpeted corridor. A light-filled opening broke the darkness in the distance.
The talon moved away from the light, a few short steps to the wall on their right. There was a snick of metal, and a panel in the wall jutted open a finger’s width. A concealed door.
They followed the talon inside, along a narrow passage. They turned left and continued farther. The corridor opened into an alcove, barely big enough for the three of them, especially considering the talon’s size. Pinholes of light shone through the wall in front of them. It looked to be made from strips of wood with a thin layer of plaster covering them. On the other side, Felice could guess, was a fresco of some kind, all the better to hide the spy holes.
Felice pressed her eye to one of them and looked out at a strange tableau.
Kelhak knelt in the middle of the room, naked and glistening, like an ancient marble statue of a hero. Sweat dripped down his skin, joining a puddle underneath his legs. He was in the center of a circle delineated by a thumb-thick braided rope of . . . silver and gold? Gemstones the size of hen’s eggs shone from bulges in the cord.
Despite the situation, Felice felt a catch in her throat. Even though it had been only a week or so at most since she’d seen him, she had forgotten that Kelhak was so . . . beautiful. Except, she reminded herself, he isn’t Kelhak anymore. Whoever Kelhak was, could have been, is gone.
Surrounding him were crafted globes, enough to brighten the room as if it were bathed in broad daylight. True to Felice’s guess, the walls were covered with paintings—scenes from the Shattering, mostly destructive and tragic, all loosely based on the famous illustrations in the Paluruk Codex, by an unknown author. Reclaimed in the Desolate Lands hundreds of years ago, the codex was cited as the oldest record known of the times during the Shattering.
One wall detailed a massive battle between sorcerers and their minions. Vormag and jukari beyond number fought ahead of tall, robed sorcerers, and behind them stood men and women with glowing hands and eyes.
Wait . . . Felice had seen similar paintings before, and books with colored illustrations. Histories pieced together from the Shattering. But this time, something stirred within her at the sight of the tall sorcerers directing the jukari. Scholars all agreed they were sorcerers, though they couldn’t agree on why they towered over the jukari. Consensus was that it was stylistic, an embellishment on the artists’ part to show the power of the sorcerers of the time.
But I know that’s not true . . .
She flicked a glance at the talon beside her, taking her eyes off Kelhak for an instant. The talon was what was depicted in the paintings, not grandiose ideas of human sorcerers.
She looked back and saw how those tall, cloaked beings were clearly in charge.
So what was it doing living beneath Anasoma? And why is it here now? What does it have to gain from killing the lich?
Its power.
Rebecci had placed her trust in the talon, but what if she was wrong? Or what if she was right and had always meant for this talon to take the lich’s power—and somehow that would benefit her? But she wasn’t here anymore. Felice was, scant yards from Kelhak, and about to attempt to kill him.
She bit her lip in indecision, hard enough to draw blood.
“Look at that!” hissed Izak in barely a whisper.
The talon’s hood jerked around at the sound, dark interior facing Izak, who swallowed and smiled weakly. Gradually, the talon returned to face the wall, presumably peering through its own spy hole.
Felice ignored their byplay. Kelhak hadn’t moved from his position. What had caused Izak to exclaim was the air around Kelhak. It shimmered like the air above the ground baking in the desert, except light flashed from something it carried. Felice squinted, straining to make out what it was. Glimmering threads of different colors—green, blue, and violet. Once seen, they became more noticeable to her, snaking and twisting around Kelhak.
She could sense fate surrounding them. The stakes in this moment were high. She almost laughed at the understatement. Before, she had thought that more than just Anasoma was at risk. Now she knew it to her very core. It wasn’t the thunderstorm feel of Kelhak’s sorcery. Nor the presence of the talon, crouched as it was next to her, ready to pounce. Or even the cold metallic touch of the trinket dagger she found herself gripping tightly in her sweaty hand. There was a weight to this moment, a ponderous importance she could ascribe only to her inner mind teasing out a reasoning her conscious mind had yet to determine.
And that thought terrified her. To not know what hung in the balance . . . and to have to act and hope the consequences were an improvement over the original state of affairs.
She glanced at the talon, who remained glued to the peephole. Then at Izak, who had abandoned his. He sat on the floor, knees to his chest, breathing heavily, like a sick dog. He offered her a weak smile, which faltered. But he still clutched his dagger, a good sign.
This was one of those moments she dreaded. You swallowed whatever fears you had, hardened your face, and did what needed doing.
The tension swelled with every beat of her heart.
Reaching a hand to Izak, she grasped his. You can do this, she mouthed, and nodded firmly. Izak’s nod in reply was short, but it was there.
She turned her head and fixed on Kelhak again. Nothing had changed. Perhaps the threads were more energetic, but it was hard to tell.
A rag-covered hand landed on her shoulder, and she flinched. Slowly she faced the talon. It bent down and leaned close to her, so its cowl was next to her ear. Cloth brushed her hair, cheek, and neck, and her skin cringed at the touch. Fetid mustiness filled her nostrils.
“Wait . . .” A breathless pause. “Soon . . .”
The rags withdrew, and Felice sucked in a breath.
A crack echoed in the chamber, as if a tree split in two. She jumped, startled.
The talon didn’t move, and Kelhak remained still.
Felice gripped her dagger even tighter, skin slick. She licked her lips, tasting her salt.
Another crack. Around Kelhak, the air shimmered further, distorting his body. It rolled over him like waves. Soon his form lost all definition. Felice’s teeth rattled along with a vibration, and a hum filled the air.
Light as bright as the sun erupted. Felice flinched and fell backward onto her ass, blinking tears from her eyes. It was too dark. She couldn’t see. The flash had ruined her night vision.
She scrambled to her left, questi
ng hand grabbing onto the talon’s coarse rags.
The hum rose in volume, and the vibration was enough to make her bones ache.
“Soon . . .”
Soon what? We run in there blindly? But her eyes slowly adjusted. She could now see the spy holes and again pressed her eye to one. Kelhak was virtually invisible. Glimmering sorcery surrounded him, so intense it obscured everything within the circle.
Abruptly, the vibration, noise, and movement ceased.
Felice’s mouth dropped open. Izak let loose a string of curses.
Kelhak had disappeared.
Pignuts. “Where is he?” she hissed at the talon.
“Gone . . .” the black pit of the talon’s hood whispered at her.
“I can see that. Where?”
The rags rippled. Felice guessed it was a shrug.
Izak chuckled nervously. “Well, that was a letdown. I could use a cold drink and a warm barmaid.”
“Wait,” the talon said. “We strike when the lich returns. Rebecci was to disrupt the lich’s sorcery and force him to return in a weakened state.”
“But Rebecci is dead.”
“We wait.”
Felice wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, doing little, as both were soaked with sweat. She throttled her own mirth at the absurdity of it all, for fear that once she started laughing, she wouldn’t stop. She sat in the dust, bewildered and stressed, waiting.
CHAPTER 31
Another boom of thunder washed over Caldan, and he shivered. The wind had whipped into a gale, and the dark clouds overhead roiled with animosity. Blue and violet streaks flashed among them, like glowing snakes racing amid smoke.
Caldan and Quiss stumbled across uneven ground, scuffed grass, and mud and stones.
Far in the distance, Quiver horns pierced the tumult, no doubt sounding a retreat for the forces warring with the jukari. Caldan doubted they could do much but huddle together and wait for the sorcery to dissipate. But there was something different about this storm that he couldn’t quite name. It seemed less virulent and more focused, as if its purpose wasn’t destruction.
Quiss looked at him with wild eyes.
“It has to be him,” the sorcerer shouted. “Now that we’re closer, I can feel his signature.”
“How far?” Caldan said, having to raise his voice to be heard.
“A hundred yards perhaps.”
Caldan squinted into the wind, which blew dirt and dust, obscuring their vision. There was a copse of trees in the direction Quiss pointed, by the bank of a stream.
Quiss quickened his pace, and Caldan hurried to catch up. Far above their heads, the clouds circled, and Caldan didn’t like the look of them. They weren’t centered over the emperor’s forces, but improbably, they were directly atop where Quiss thought Gazija was.
By the ancestors, what was going on?
Caldan felt a surge of sorcery and heard Quiss gasp. A shield dome covered the trees, not pitch-black as Bells’s had been, but barely a haze, like a ripple in the atmosphere. From a distance, they might have missed it—and perhaps that was the point.
Quiss and Caldan rushed toward it but stopped at its edge. Quiss placed both hands against it, as if trying to push his way inside.
“What are you—”
“Quiet!” Quiss said. “Yes, it’s Gazija.” The sorcerer glanced up at the clouds, then uttered a curse in an unknown tongue. “This way!”
He ran along the edge of the shield, and Caldan followed. Quiss kept peering through the barrier, then stopped abruptly.
“Here! Look!”
Caldan could see through the trees. A small figure sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, the stream flowing past in front of him.
Gazija.
From inside the shield, he turned to regard them with a look of chagrin, like a child caught stealing sweets. Then he turned his face from them.
He was only fifteen paces away, and they couldn’t reach him.
“Fool! Fool!” Quiss said. “We’re in this together!”
Caldan grabbed his arm. “What’s happening?”
Quiss turned to face Caldan, looking like someone whose child had just died. Tears streaked his face, blown sideways by the wind.
“Gazija has somehow led Kelhak to him. He must have a plan he thinks will defeat him.”
“Can we get through the shield? Can we help him?”
Quiss shook his head. “No. For the moment, all we can do is watch.”
They turned to look through the shield, just as Gazija reached down and drew something out of a sack at his feet: Caldan’s smith-crafted figure. But something about it was different. He could sense it from here. He knew his own work, and this one had been altered. Runes inscribed in lines finer than the thinnest hair, many symbols smaller than a grain of sand. They complemented what Caldan had started, altering and enhancing original elements. What resulted was a smith-crafting many times more complex. Gazija had taken the crafting to its logical conclusion.
Gusts of wind swirled, and Caldan shielded his eyes from the dust and leaves. Most blew around him, but some detritus hit his skin with a force that stung. A heavy, metallic scent filled the air. He tilted his head back and squinted at the roiling clouds. Glowing filaments of sorcery churned among them, green, blue, and violet. Caldan knew there was a pattern to them, but it was far beyond his ken.
In the center of the whirlwind, the clouds were now halfway to the ground. As he watched, they accelerated rapidly. Down the clouds came, twisting and spinning, to strike the other side of the stream.
Caldan’s guts churned as reality folded in on itself. He doubled over, hands clawing at his stomach. He vomited bile onto the dirt. It didn’t seem to help. Gagging and nauseated, he staggered a few steps before sinking to his knees.
And then, just as suddenly as it had hit him, the sensation was gone. Calm settled over him. Leaves and dirt no longer stung. The wind had died, as if a door to it closed.
Caldan knelt there, knees digging into the soil, trying to pull himself together. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat.
“Slave!” came a booming voice.
Caldan lurched to his feet, shaking his head to clear it.
“It’s here,” Quiss said with despair. “The lich is here.”
Lich?
A man stood across the stream from Gazija.
“Kelhak,” Quiss breathed.
The God-Emperor was tall and muscular, blue eyes glowing as if lit with an inner fire. Naked as a newborn babe. He wore not a single crafting or trinket.
“Ik’zvime,” Gazija spat, standing.
“Just so.” Kelhak’s face was expressionless as he stared.
Caldan opened his well. To his crafting senses, the man was transformed: a sorcerous construct housed in flesh. Lines of power radiated throughout his body, never seeming to start or end. But they had to. And the wells . . . Caldan flinched, powerless to stop himself. Two dozen. Three dozen. More. He stopped counting, unable and unwilling to estimate how many there were.
What need did such a being have for trinkets or craftings? It breathed sorcery. Lived inside power untold.
“Why do you do this?” Gazija croaked.
“You would not understand, slave.”
Gazija drew himself up straighter. “Slave no longer.”
“One cannot escape one’s nature.”
“So you will get your revenge on me. For what reason? Why did you have to chase us such a long distance, and for centuries?”
The lich sneered. “No one escapes me.”
“Then do it.”
“I grow stronger than you can imagine. Where are the rest of your people? I will find them after this and consume them, as I did with Savine after he failed me and was imprisoned. Then this world will be mine.”
“For what reason? You are nothing. You exist for no purpose, other than to exist.”
Caldan didn’t know what Gazija thought he could accomplish by arguing with the lich. Perhaps it was
to delay his inevitable death. But no, there was design here—Gazija had a plan. Sorcery on such a scale had to have weakened Kelhak, and that had to be part of it. Gazija had forced him to come here, to face him and leave himself vulnerable.
Gazija’s trembling hands clenched his canes. And there was a faint burst of sorcery from him, linked to a tiny crafting suspended around his neck.
“A message,” Quiss murmured with puzzlement. “A signal. But to who?”
Gazija’s shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. He turned to face Caldan and Quiss, fear contorting his face.
Whatever he’d planned wasn’t working. He obviously expected something to have happened, and nothing had.
“Rebecci is dead,” Kelhak said. “You should have guessed when I told you I consumed Savine. It was she who had possession of him. As always, you’re two steps behind.”
Kelhak didn’t follow Gazija’s glance, but all of a sudden, boiling clouds of darkness crashed down upon Caldan and Quiss. Caldan felt his shield waver under the onslaught, and his crafting keened from the strain. Streams of fire snaked through the obscuring sorcery, scorching trails across his shield. He groaned and drew more from his well, bolstering his wards lest they break. But it was no use. Lights flashed, and hammers pummeled his shield.
He couldn’t take much more, and the metal of his shield crafting grew uncomfortably hot.
Several moments passed. Waves of heat pounded him. The air shivered. The tide of sorcery was too great. Too powerful.
Caldan waited for his shield to break.
But the screeching sorceries dampened, then disappeared. The pressure on Caldan’s mind eased.
Quiss was still standing beside him, covered in his own shield. And a dome surrounded him and Caldan both. He traced the origin of the sorcery to Gazija.
The old sorcerer glared at Kelhak, mouth twisted in pained determination. Glittering lines skittered across the dome, and though Gazija bore the brunt of Kelhak’s destructive sorcery, he managed to turn to face them.
“Save yourselves,” Gazija cried. “You can do no more here.”
Kelhak’s sorcery trailed into nothingness. The dome covering Caldan and Quiss winked out of existence. Gazija had saved them from certain death, at the cost of depleting his own reserves.
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