by Marc Turner
A short distance away was a pillar as wide as the Guardian was tall. It glowed with a faint luminescence. Chained to the column was a gaunt man with a distended stomach, naked but for a loincloth. His blue-gray skin was so translucent Senar could see his heart beating inside his rib cage. His hair and beard hung down to the ground, where they pooled in lank, knotted coils. From his fingers and toes grew blackened and twisted nails more than an armspan long. His skin was dark with sweat and grime, and the flesh of his wrists and ankles was ragged and weeping from the touch of the manacles.
All at once things started to make sense to Senar: the dead titans; the strength of the sorcery used to seal this chamber; the whiff of sanctification in the air.
He was looking at one of the pantheon. Who else but a god would be imprisoned beneath a titan fortress? Who else could have survived the millennia? Senar just hoped this wasn’t the Lord of Hidden Faces he was staring at—an immortal whose existence the Guardian had denied all these years. That would be awkward.
The god must have sensed Senar’s regard, for he glanced up. From the depths of his bloodshot eyes shone the misery and loneliness of centuries of imprisonment. Senar staggered beneath the weight of his gaze. He tried to look away but could not. He tried to raise a hand to cover his eyes, but his limbs would not obey him. The god’s eyes filled his vision as if the immortal were standing toe-to-toe with him. The chill of the mist about Senar began to fade, and he could no longer feel the hilt of his sword in his hand. Instead he became aware of stone against his back, of limbs trembling in a fire of agony, of the touch of cold metal round the burning flesh of his wrists. Pressure started to build in his chest until it seemed his heart would explode.
Then the god’s eyes abruptly lost focus and Senar was able to look aside. He drew in a breath.
Mazana’s expression was wry. “You may want to avoid meeting his gaze. It packs quite a punch.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Senar croaked.
His words were whispered back at him by the titan faces hidden in the fog, and the god cocked his head to listen. A snatch of laughter escaped his lips—laughter that became high and hysterical, almost a sob. He began thrashing against his bindings. The chains groaned as their links drew tight, and the pillar at his back quivered. A tremor shook the room. Mazana seized Senar’s arm to steady herself.
The god let his chains fall slack. Then he threw his weight against them once more, muscles standing out from his arms as he strained and twisted, pulling first with one arm, then the other, then seizing in his right hand the manacle holding his left and pulling with both, bracing his legs against the pillar for leverage. The floor bucked. Veins pulsed at the god’s temples. He let out a choked scream that transformed into a delirious chuckle as his struggles subsided. Moments later the clanking of his chains fell to a rustle, and he became still. His head dropped to his chest.
The tremors receded.
Senar gathered the frayed ends of his nerves. “Who is he?” he asked Mazana after a pause.
“This is Fume—one of the gods who disappeared in the war between the pantheon and the titans.”
“Forty thousand years ago.” Senar shivered. Forty thousand years chained in darkness and mist with only the whispers of the titan faces for company. It was unthinkable.
“Don’t waste your pity on him,” Mazana said. “At the height of his powers, our long-haired friend here had a reputation for ruthlessness even Imerle would envy. What he didn’t discover about blood sacrifice almost certainly isn’t worth knowing. It is said he found a way to prolong his victims’ lives until every last drop of blood was extracted from their veins.”
“He was captured by the titans?”
“Toward the end of the war, yes. The titans tried to use him to wring concessions from the pantheon, but they were fools to think the other gods cared for his fate. The conflict was as good as over by then, and the cooperation between the immortals lasted only so long as was necessary to secure the titans’ defeat.”
It sounded like one of the stories Senar’s old loremaster had told him back at the Sacrosanct. Yet here was Mazana speaking as if she’d witnessed the events herself. “And you know all this how?”
The Storm Lady smiled.
She rubbed her hands along her arms, then let her arms fall to her sides. She was still holding her dagger. “He’s quite mad,” she said, nodding at Fume, “but I suppose that’s no surprise considering how long he’s been imprisoned. The titans abandoned this fortress when they fled the world at the end of the Second Age. As for Fume—they just left him behind.”
Senar looked at the god, taking care not to meet his gaze again. Fume was crooning to himself. The notes of his song echoed back to him, jumbled and discordant. The immortal listened before repeating the disjointed melody.
“And the librarians were his disciples?” Senar asked Mazana.
“Very good. The duplicitous Darbonna and her brood are—were—all that remained of the god’s cult.”
“They’ve been trying to free him all this time?”
“They’ve been trying to find him all this time, yes. Darbonna told you the truth when she said they came to Olaire less than two years ago.”
“How did they know he was here?”
“Most likely they didn’t. Most likely they’ve spent centuries wandering the globe in search of a master they sensed was still alive, yet could not make contact with. When they arrived in Olaire they must have felt his presence, for they begged leave of the emira to occupy the fortress under the pretext of setting up a library. Imerle agreed. The tremors started when Darbonna began chipping away at the barrier of titan sorcery at the base of the ramp. Oh, she didn’t have the power to demolish it entirely, but she did enough to weaken it and so expose Olaire to the effects of the god’s struggles to free himself. The rest I think you know.”
Except what Mazana was doing here, of course. If her intent all along had been to liberate Fume, why had she not approached Darbonna and offered to help? And how did she plan to break the immortal’s chains if Fume himself could not? More important, what use was a mad god as an ally in the Storm Lady’s struggle with the emira?
“So what happens now?” Senar said.
“Now we release him.”
And before the Guardian could stop her, Mazana stepped forward and buried her dagger in Fume’s chest.
Senar stood aghast, his mind struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. Then the god’s roar of pain battered at him. He raised his hands to his ears only to find that made the sound resonate more strongly through his body. The hidden titan faces added their voices to Fume’s, emitting a blast of noise so intense the air about Senar seemed to thicken. A groan was torn from him. He felt blood trickle from his ears. Perhaps if he retreated into the mist it would deaden the sound, and he took Mazana’s arm and stumbled back.
She shook him off.
Then, dropping her dagger, she seized Fume’s head in her hands and covered his mouth with hers.
CHAPTER 17
SENAR’S EARS were still ringing from Fume’s death cry as he left Mazana in order to scout their path back to the ramp. When he arrived at the first ring of pillars he found Greave lying dead in a pool of urine, his tongue swollen to many times its normal size. Mazana’s other bodyguards were also dead, except for the Everlord who sat propped against a pillar beyond the light of the remaining torch. His right leg was missing, and he had been stabbed in dozens of places, yet he did not seem to be in pain. The mist of titan sorcery was stopping him from regenerating, so Senar hauled him upright and helped him up the ramp and along one of the passages to a room that was free of the fog.
Scattered across the ground at the foot of the ramp were the bodies of Fume’s disciples, along with six of Imerle’s personal guard. Some of the emira’s forces must have survived the librarians’ assault and turned on Mazana’s bodyguards, for the corpse of the axman was surrounded by the bodies of four of Imerle’s troops, and the slant-eyed wom
an had died with a soldier’s spear in her back. On counting the dead, Senar discovered that of the emira’s warriors only Cilin had survived to pursue Mazana into the mist. As for Fume’s disciples, there was no telling how many might have fled up the ramp to the corridors above.
When he returned to the Storm Lady he found her cutting off the little fingers of Fume’s hands with her dagger.
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Jambar.
A memory came to Senar of the conversation between the shaman and Mazana yesterday at the edge of the subterranean tomb exposed by the quake. Jambar had revealed that the tremors originated from the citadel, and the Storm Lady had said, Don’t you think the emira should be told? At the time, something had puzzled Senar about the conversation, and he wondered now whether it had been staged for him in the expectation he would convey the words to Imerle. The reason for Jambar’s involvement with Mazana was clear enough—with Fume’s bones in his collection, his powers of foresight would increase markedly. But what had Jambar done for Mazana in return? Yes, he’d convinced Imerle the cause of the quakes needed to be investigated, but there had to be more to it than that.
“Kiapa’s alive,” Senar said to the Storm Lady. “Your other bodyguards are dead.”
“And the emira’s soldiers?”
“All dead, along with more than fifty disciples. I couldn’t find Darbonna, though.”
The news seemed to amuse Mazana. “Strange, is it not, that a god as savage as Fume should have such pitiful followers.”
Senar frowned. “Their god has been missing for forty thousand years, yet these few remained loyal. And you would call them pitiful?”
“Who has been answering their prayers all this time? What do they have to show for their devotion?”
“Is that how you judge the worth of everything?” he said, more sharply than he’d intended.
Mazana raised an eyebrow at him.
Senar took a breath, surprised at his irritation. Why should he be angry at Mazana? Because she hadn’t told him what she’d planned to do here? She hadn’t asked Senar to accompany her. He’d come to the fortress on Imerle’s orders, so the Storm Lady owed him nothing. She hadn’t asked for his allegiance. She hadn’t asked him for anything.
Mazana tore a strip of cloth from Cilin’s shirt and wrapped Fume’s severed fingers in it. Senar felt a twinge from his own missing digits, and he scratched at their stubs. As the Storm Lady pushed herself to her feet, she swayed and lowered her head into her hands. Senar resisted an urge to go to her.
“How do you feel?” he said.
“If you are referring to my … contact with Fume, I feel no different. But then we are still within the deadening influence of the titans’ sorcery. Perhaps when we leave this place…”
“You are sure you can steal the god’s power from his dying breath?”
“So the priestess assured me.”
“And if she is wrong?”
Mazana’s eyes twinkled. “You want to know whether I’m now strong enough to defeat Imerle? If you’re so worried about finishing on the winning side, perhaps you should kill me while I’m vulnerable. I’m sure the emira would reward you handsomely.”
Senar scowled. He didn’t know what annoyed him more, that the idea could still tempt him, or that Mazana was so confident of his support that she was prepared to voice the thought herself. He didn’t like being presumed upon by the Storm Lady any more than he did Imerle. “You think there will be no repercussions from what you did? Matron’s blessing, you killed a god!”
“What I did was put him out of his misery. In any event, it isn’t as if he has any disciples left to avenge him.”
“I’m not talking about his disciples. The priestess told you Fume’s power would ride his final breath, yes? But did she say why? Because the only way I can see that happening is if you took in part of his spirit.” And absorbing the spirit of a mad god obsessed with blood sacrifice, how could that end badly?
Evidently the prospect didn’t concern Mazana, because her expression did not change. Did becoming emira mean so much to her? Was power all she cared about?
“What about the priestess?” Senar said. “What is her interest in all this?”
Mazana did not reply.
“How did you find her?”
“She found me.”
“And you think she offered her services out of the goodness of her heart? You’re nothing more than a puppet, Mazana, and you don’t even know who’s twitching your strings.”
The Storm Lady’s voice was cold. “And if I’d rejected the priestess’s aid, where would I be now, do you suppose? In a shallow grave, most likely, dead by the emira’s hand.” Or by yours, her look seemed to say. “If Imerle had acted against me sooner, would you have lifted a finger to help me?”
Would he? Senar didn’t know. But that wasn’t the point. For Mazana, this wasn’t about survival. If it had been, when she’d learned about Imerle’s plans to kill her she would have fled or taken the information to the Storm Council. Instead she had come here.
Before he could put that to her, though, she strode past him in the direction of the ramp.
Senar hesitated, then followed.
A glow marked the place where the torch lay on the shattered pillar. Mazana followed the light, Senar a step behind, to where the Guardian had dueled Greave. All about, the ground was slick with blood, and the stench of excrement hung in the air. The Storm Lady paused to kick Greave’s corpse before disappearing into the murk. She returned with the dagger she’d thrown at one of the disciples.
Senar caught her gaze and nodded toward the ramp. “What’s going on up there? In Olaire, I mean.”
“The illustrious Imerle will be making her play for power. Weren’t you listening to what I said in the throne room? The emira has been borrowing from merchants to help pay for a company of mercenaries. They, along with troops from Imerle’s home island, will have launched an attack on the city by now.” She returned her dagger to the sheath at her waist. “With luck, by the time we leave here the emira will have disposed of the other Storm Lords, meaning all I have to do is defeat her and take her place.”
Senar’s anger was back. “Will anyone notice the difference, I wonder?”
“You think we are alike, she and I?” Mazana said. “Should I take that as a compliment?”
The Guardian’s expression tightened. “It was you, wasn’t it? The summonses to the other Storm Lords. The assassination of Gensu.”
In Mazana’s hand the cloth wrapped about Fume’s fingers was becoming soaked through with blood. “Of course.”
“Why?”
“Besides ridding myself of a contender to the throne?” She shrugged. “To throw the emira off guard. To fluster her into making a mistake. Were you not surprised at how easily I goaded her into sending me here? She wanted me out of the way.”
“Why bother goading her at all? Why not just sneak into the fortress when her attention was elsewhere?”
“Because then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company. I also wouldn’t have had Imerle’s crack troops to watch my back.”
“You knew the disciples would attack? Did you also know Greave would turn on me?”
“I knew that much and more. Our one-eyed friend, Jambar, told me how many disciples we would be facing, that their assault would come when we reached the first circle of pillars, that likely Cilin alone of the emira’s soldiers would follow me to the column where Fume was chained. The only thing he wasn’t sure about was you.”
“The shaman didn’t know whose side I would take … but you did.”
The Storm Lady stepped closer. The front of her dress was smeared with Fume’s blood, and there was more blood round her lips. “Naturally,” she said. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about how you came through the Merigan portal? Imerle has let you live this long, but you know she will turn on you eventually. Only by helping me today do you stand a chance of walking out of this alive. In
a way, you’ve been using me as much as I have you.” She held Senar’s gaze, challenging him to contradict her. Then she looked down at his right hand. “You never told me about that ring.”
He read the unspoken question in her eyes. “Her name was Jessca.”
“Your wife?”
“No.”
“What happened to her?”
Senar looked away, unsure why he was speaking of this. “It was the aftermath of the Guardians’ assault on the Black Tower. Li Benir was dying. Many of my other friends had already passed through Shroud’s Gate.”
“But not Jessca?”
“No, she died later. When we attacked the tower, the mages summoned demons to defend them. A few of those demons fled Arkarbour when their summoners were killed. Jessca was among those sent to hunt them down.” She’d asked Senar to go with her, too, but he had said no. Because of Li Benir’s injuries—because Senar had wanted to be with his master at the end.
Mazana’s smile was rueful. “Did you know your eyes only ever come to life when you speak of the past? Poor Senar. All you brought with you from Erin Elal are memories. You are like the sadly departed Greave here.” She kicked the champion again. “Your life is all behind you.”
“It appears you have me all worked out,” Senar said stiffly. “A pity you seem unwilling to hold yourself up to the same light you judge me by.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Greave told me you stop at nothing to buy the loyalty of your followers, yet you’ve made no effort to win my trust or even my friendship. Instead you appear intent on mocking me at every turn.”
“Perhaps I have no further use for you.”
“And perhaps you’ve got so accustomed to using people that you know of nothing else.”
Mazana’s expression grew sober, and when she spoke again her voice appeared to come from a great distance. “You seem so keen to show me the error of my ways. To make me into something I am not. Are you sure it’s even me you see standing here before you and not someone else?”
With that she walked past him, following the trail of corpses toward the ramp.