The Prince of the Veil

by Hal Emerson

  The man’s eyes were as pure, blind white as his armor and long, flowing hair; shining red Bloodmage runes were carved into the skin of his temples, granting him sight even after he’d lost it. Rumor said that the new sight saw deeper than normal vision ever could.

  Tomaz believed it.

  “Valmok,” the Ashandel growled, gripping the handle of Malachi more tightly. Memories began to trickle through the angry red haze of battle into the back of his mind, coming from some untapped reservoir he hadn’t known was there. Valmok choosing him the day he’d been promoted to Blade Master rank; Valmok helping him forge his sword and teaching him the secret Forms; Valmok watching as the Blade Master tattoo, the brilliant blue and white star streaked with broken flecks of diamond, was etched into the skin of his back.

  And underneath it all, like a hidden current in a rushing river, ran a torrent of fear. He pulled strength from his Aspect, trying to buffer himself, trying to drown out the thoughts, but it was no use. He might as well be a young boy again, standing before his old Master.

  “I hear they call you Tomaz now,” Valmok rumbled. “Did you choose the name immediately after you turned your cloak, or only after thorough consideration? I’m glad you couldn’t keep the original, though I suppose you wouldn’t want to. Just an annoying inconvenience, like your old loyalties, yes?”

  Tomaz tried to steel himself, but couldn’t calm his mind.

  “It was my right to choose a name, as it was my right to choose my own fate,” he heard himself say in reply, his voice matching Valmok’s for intensity and strength.

  Valmok smiled, revealing rows of large yellowed teeth.

  I have the Aspect of Strength now – this will not even be a contest.

  But the words rang hollow, and he knew it. For all Valmok’s size and strength, what made him so deadly was that he rarely had to use it. He moved with finesse and grace that would have made him a famous dancer in another age. Tomaz had fought skilled fighters before, Leah and Raven included, and more than held his own. He’d been trained in the Szobody Sword Forms and the Gunn Ax Forms since birth. He’d faced Ramael the Ox Lord in one-on-one combat. But all the memories he had of sparring with his teacher were hard and angular, and each of them ended with him on the ground, sprawled out on his back, Valmok’s blade at his throat. None of them ended in victory – none.

  He was a younger man then; his age will slow him now.

  But as the Blade Master moved forward, his movements were not sluggish, nor were his reactions slow. Were it not for the white hair and eyes, he could have been a man half his age.

  Even younger than me.

  Valmok raised Jeremiah, the greatsword upon which Tomaz had modeled Malachi, and assumed the stance of Lion on the Hill. Tomaz immediately flowed into Still Water Waiting, and began to breathe in controlled bursts, all senses tingling. They circled each other for a moment, watching each other for the slightest break in stride, the smallest weakness.

  An arrow flew out of nowhere and passed inches in front of Valmok’s face. He jerked his head back, a quick sure move that was hardly even there, but it was enough.

  Tomaz rushed forward, Malachi flashing in the light.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Raven Ascending

  Raven struck the Guardian in the chest, pulling strength through the Raven Talisman and breaking bone even through the man’s breastplate. A battleaxe fell from the giant’s grip, and Raven picked it up faster than the eye could follow and buried it in the second Guardian’s hip, cracking bone as the blade sank deep into the base of the spine.

  Life drained from the man and flowed into Raven, adding to the already raging torrent inside him that was, for the moment, contained and directed by Aemon’s Blade at his side.

  He dropped the axe to the floor where it rang against the stone and smeared the beautiful carpet that ran the middle third of the hall. Drawing on his gathered strength, he rushed on, his leather boots scraping against the floor, leaving echoes in his wake that reverberated in counterpoint to the flashes of his memories.

  I ran down this hall the day Rikard gave me my first horse.

  He turned left and pushed through a set of doors that had glowing red runes inscribed like enormous bas-relief carvings on either side; as soon as his hands touched the doors he felt the enchantment holding them shut break, making a sound like shattering glass that echoed along the corridor. Raven pushed through, moving quickly.

  The room he crossed was a cavernous hall, dripping in gold and silver gilding, watched over by life-sized marble statues of beautiful men and women in wall sconces. He recognized it immediately: the place he’d first met Leah Monsunne, the young lady with whom he’d been infatuated before leaving the Fortress.

  I guess I have a thing for girls named Leah.

  He stamped down on the memories, trying to brush them under the edges of his mind, already a carpet of regrets and half-formed sorrows, but everywhere he turned another appeared, preventing such escape.

  He took the servants’ stair, the one concealed in the corner, and ascended rapidly, drawing on the endurance of the men he’d killed, using their strength to fuel his legs so as not to draw too much through the Crown from Lorna or Tomaz. The memories of the men were mute and distant; after all this time, after all this killing, he’d finally learned to numb the pain that came with it.

  As he climbed the stairs, already halfway up the central tower of the Fortress, heading toward his waiting Mother, he felt the inevitability of what was to come.

  Inevitable … how hard Goldwyn tried to help me escape that word.

  He had become the thing he had always wanted to avoid. Even when he’d still been in the clutches of the Empire, he had managed to elude it, managed to hold it at bay. But the darkness in his heart, no matter how deep he buried it, continued to build with every beat. His blood rushed through him like fire, throbbing behind his temples and burning in the pit of his stomach, his heart pumping hard with mingled anxiety and anticipation; anxiety that he would fail, and anticipation of the moment when everything, for good or ill, would be decided.

  He left the circular way of the servants’ stair and stepped out to find himself at the base of the final grand staircase that connected the tops of the other towers and went straight up to the throne room itself. Somewhere behind him, a clock struck the hour, beating out the stroke of midnight.

  Time grows short.

  He moved up the stairway, hoping everything was ready; hoping that the others had managed to find a way into the city; hoping that Autmaran had managed to secure the main gate and hold off the Visigony, somehow defeating the Daemons; hoping that the Bloodmage ritual beneath the Fortress itself had been disrupted, the enchantments left unfinished.

  Those thoughts took him the final distance, and he found himself standing before the entrance door to the Throne room, in front of doors carved in bas-relief with images of the Empress herself in haloed glory that took forty slaves to move.

  Doors that now stood wide open, inviting.

  Raven felt his hands begin to shake, and something heavy fell with a thud into the pit of his stomach. His vision narrowed as his throat seized up and made it hard to breathe. He forced himself forward, every muscle telling him to run, to flee, every hair on his body trying to stand on end, quivering at every touch of air. His eyes darted left and right as he took in every last shadow, every last bit of information he could collect. He’d embraced the Raven Talisman – not the Aspect, not truly, not after all she did to corrupt it – and thousands of sensory details were flooding through him: the sight of glinting gold and silver gilding that covered and outlined nearly everything; the empty sounds of now-unpeopled halls that had always been full of aristocratic Blood seeking favor; the smell of daffodils and lilies in huge floral arrangements that only just covered the smell of blood and death that pervaded the entire city.

  He glanced sideways and saw the opening to the waiting chamber beside the door to the throne room, with the ornate mahogany door, behind wh
ich he’d been attacked and abducted almost a year ago today. His hands continued to shake, and he balled them into fists, trying to overwhelm the fear with anger, trying to drown it out in the bright flame of hate that had carried him so far, but he couldn’t. His rage had burned out, and so too had his desire to save the Exiled Kindred; all of it seemed to mean nothing now that he stood here upon the doorstep of his childhood.

  His feet moved woodenly, one in front of the other, and he passed the threshold of the doors into the throne room of the Diamond Empress.

  The room was made of blackstone, the sooty black marble found only beneath the mountains that surrounded Lucien and bled into the Eyrie. The pillars that ringed the wide chamber were made of it as well, and inscribed with enchantments that caused the stone to shine with inner brilliance that negated the need for torches. The room itself was a heptagonal shape that seemed strangely modest compared to the rest of the Fortress, until one saw the Diamond Throne.

  It lived up to its name. The Empress herself, using Bloodmagic that no one but the Visigony seemed to understand, had constructed it, and it shone and sparkled like the sun. It was a light that seemed both to illuminate and deluminate, making everything within sight brighter, but also harder to see.

  She herself was there, of course, in her white gown and gleaming silver rings. She stared down at him from the throne, ringed with light and majesty, her flowing golden hair and perfect blue eyes watching him from a face that bore no lines, no scars, no hint of hardship; a face that was everything beautiful in the world, and somehow utterly mind-ruining in its perfection.

  And there were the Talismans. Embedded in the seven points of the Diamond Crown, each glowed faintly with its own light, though they were no more than stones, indistinguishable from smooth pebbles one might find in any given stream or brook throughout the Empire. But for all their simplicity, they bore seven markings of power, letters of some long forgotten language, and were the basis for the Bloodmage runes. Through them, the seven Talisman bearers were able to pull their power, using the markings etched into their skin by the Visigony, markings that were derived from the stone Talismans themselves.

  She stood to greet him, abandoning the languid posture she’d assumed draped across the Diamond Throne, and the beautiful smile he’d always remembered etched itself across her face, like acid cutting through the perfect marble of a masterwork sculpture.

  She spoke to him, saying only four words, but they hit him like a mallet upside the head. They rang in his ears like a bell, as a veil in his own mind was lifted, letting him know what he hadn’t been able to remember for almost a year, letting him remember what he couldn’t on his own. He managed to remain standing, though the temptation to fall to his knees before her was overpowering, and he swayed with the desire. He grabbed hold of Aemon’s Blade for strength, and hoped against hope that he was stronger than he knew.

  “Hello, my little Azraeloph.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Wolf of Eldoras

  Lorna rode beside Davydd as they led their third of the Kindred army away from the burning gate. The thick metal portcullis had already begun to twist and warp from the heat, making it an impossible snarl that would never open without days or weeks of labor. As they rode into the city, she knew that Davydd was leading them on instinct now, headed for the distant Fortress that speared the sky.

  Seven towers bound together by an impenetrable wall … how do we break into that?

  As Lorna examined the structure, she knew instinctively that the central tower, the tallest and widest, belonged to the Empress. The area at the very top of that tower was expanded, and had balconies so large they were even visible at this distance, allowing a full circle view of the city below.

  When will she come out to fight?

  The others hadn’t addressed the issue, and Lorna hadn’t brought it up, though now she wished she had. The question had begun to burn inside her ever since the clouds above the Fortress had begun to swirl and converge on the highest tower.

  But as they moved down the street, a huge shriek came from the distant edge of the city; a sound like a thousand nails dragged against steel, driving the thought from her mind.

  Daemons. Gods help keep Autmaran strong and Tym safe.

  Sudden lightning flashed across the rainless sky, and thunder rolled over them, seeming to constrict the air. The sudden smell of geraniums wafted past them, and as Lorna, Davydd, and their force of Kindred made their way closer to the center of the city, she was more and more on edge.

  Tall buildings surrounded them now as they moved at speed along one of the side paths that led to the long circular boulevard that went from the gate to the Fortress. She and Davydd now were mounted, along with the Scouts, Rangers, and Rogues that still had horses, while the infantry soldiers were following as quickly as they could. They burst out onto the huge, circular boulevard, lined with towering structures and the houses of thousands. They passed a huge, ugly industrial complex of some kind with chimneys that looked eager, in normal times, to belch smoke into the dark skies of Lucien; the houses here were stained with soot, and the lights were an ugly fluorescence, alien and haunting, that left green afterimages on Lorna’s vision even as she blinked and squinted to preserve whatever night vision she could.

  Where are all the people?

  The streets were too quiet – and there were signs of struggle everywhere: doors smashed in, clothing littering the streets, even bodies.

  Not like in Lerne – there they just set the trap and left, waiting for them all to die so the Bloodmages could finish the ritual and bring the crystals after them. Not here – they had to do the dirty work themselves.

  Lorna and Davydd had shared a look as soon as they’d crossed the threshold of the first row of houses that said they both knew what was happening. If Autmaran hadn’t guessed it already, then he no doubt would soon, and hopefully he would send Scouts into the city if he could spare them.

  Maybe that’s why the Empress hasn’t emerged yet … maybe she’s waiting for the ritual to be completed.

  Lorna couldn’t imagine the woman being any more more powerful than she already was, but she knew it was possible; if she gained the power of those crystal on top of the power from the Talismans, then there was no force that could stand before her if Raven fell. Even all of them together, Lorna, Davydd, Tomaz, Autmaran, Leah, and Tym, would be nothing more to her than a band of flies to swat away before she descended on Vale and wiped out the Kindred once and for all.

  Figures moved out of an alley in front of them, and Lorna felt a chill go through her. She unlimbered her axe, reining in her horse, and heard swords free themselves from sheathes behind her as the Kindred followed suit.

  Guardians. Hundreds of them. Each stood over seven feet tall, with blood red plate armor and double-handed swords. They spread out, blocking the way, directly between the Fortress and the Kindred. Davydd snarled low in his throat, raised his sword, and let it fall.

  The Kindred charged, Davydd, Lorna, and those mounted in the lead. The Guardians unsheathed their weapons, and ran to meet them, huge looming figures straight out of legend. The forces met, and in a matter of seconds they killed a dozen Kindred soldiers, taking no casualties. Lorna pushed herself to the front, drawing attention, and attacked with her axe, not even bothering to block or deflect blows that would only superficially wound her. Gray light flowed from her bare hands and feet, and she felt as though she’d never need to sleep, never need to rest ever again. A sword bit into the exposed flesh of her neck where her helmet and breastplate didn’t meet, and she retaliated by removing the Guardian’s head from his shoulders. Her wound healed; his didn’t.

  Davydd was moving about beside her in bright flashes of brilliant gold that illuminated the night. Swords missed him, sure-footed Guardians aiming for his head stumbled over inexplicable obstacles, and through it all he danced with his Valerium Titania.

  The battle intensified, but with Lorna and Davydd at the center, drawing attention, the Ki
ndred gave just as good as they got. But the Guardians died hard, and when finally Lorna realized they had made their way through the group, she also realized they’d lost a third of their own force.

  Somewhere, no doubt from a nearby square, a clock chimed midnight, and a second screech came from the gate; Lorna looked that way and saw an Air Daemon dive toward Autmaran’s side of the city.

  “Shadows and fire,” she cursed to Davydd, “we don’t have time for this – if we’re not done by dawn –”

  “On me!” Davydd cried, holding up Titania, the sheen of fresh blood that coated the sword shining sickly in the light of the chemical clockwork lights.

  “For the Exiled Kindred!” cried one of the men, and the shout was echoed and shouted back. Davydd’s side pulsed gold, the blackened skin seeming to grow darker, and he smiled, rearing back on his stallion, before he whirled and rode forward at full speed, Lorna once again at his side, ready to protect him should he fall.

  He will not. Even if only one of us survives, it shall be him; this I swear by the blood of gods and men, and let them all be damned who try to keep me from it.

  The next group they encountered was of common soldiers, rushing through the streets in the direction of the main gate, and unlucky enough to come upon this other group instead. Davydd and Lorna rode through them, cutting down a half dozen as they passed, and the rest of their force trampled them underfoot as they shouted and screamed down the road. More soldiers followed – they were closer to the Fortress now, halfway there. The streets widened, and battles began to take place in open courtyards, barren but for stone fountains that now ran red with blood and marble statues that stared on, indifferent.