To the Emaz, the Maz, and all the preachers in the world, to all my mortal brothers and sisters, I deliver this message: It is not the gods who inspire evil thoughts. It is man’s evil thoughts that breed demons.
Each voice that invokes Phiras gives him more power. Every prayer to Yoos makes mankind more evil. Every sacrifice from the Valipondes creates nightmarish monsters—more and more, stronger and stronger. And it will continue until a time when men no longer dream of the Age of Ys with hope, but rather with nostalgia, like the memory of a beautiful dream, never experienced.
The teaching of Sage Eurydis advocates tolerance and peace. I have defended these values my entire life, and I deny them now. Do we heal wolves that butcher children? No, of course not. So in Ith, why do we host the dark souls who have decided to openly worship our goddess’s enemies? Why should we, in our universal quest, pander to the very enemy we are fighting against?
Because that’s exactly what this is: a battle with no possible truce, and one that will end by annihilating one of the two sides. The moralists or the demonists. Virtue or black magic. Good or Evil.
I can remember letting myself get carried away during my speeches. Letting it slip that I think we must resort to force, to war even. We must begin a crusade, one that cannot end until all mankind has forgotten the names of the black gods.
More often, the idea filled me with shame, and I rejected this contradictory violence with the same reasons I used to incite it. But sometimes . . . sometimes I think that infringing on the Moral would be a lesser evil, difficult to accomplish and painful to our conscience, but perhaps a necessary preparation for mankind to defend the threatened Age of Ys.
You, the Emaz, have declared me a heretic for defending these ideas. Very well, forget the crusade, and let the souls of evil men proliferate in the Holy City. But prevent them from converting weak minds, the lost, the unsuspecting, those who live and let live, and all the naïve idle minds that fill their ranks.
I deny Tolerance. Every mortal who dedicates himself to the black gods does more than just delay the arrival of the Age of Ys. He becomes its enemy.
I deny Peace. We have always thought it was enough to wait. An error. We have to fight.
Victory is not assured, simply because we represent Good. There is no universal law that gives us an advantage. All is in equilibrium; the other side has as much a chance as we do.
Lana stopped reading. Her companions thought she needed to pause to gather her thoughts, as she was obviously suffering from an array of powerful emotions. That wasn’t the case, though.
“The rest is illegible,” she said. “I can’t read it.”
“It’s erased?” Corenn asked, worried.
“No . . . but his words don’t make any sense. It looks almost like a foreign language. Maybe a code?”
The Maz passed the journal to her friends, who glanced at it before returning it to her. Together, Lana, Rey, and Corenn knew six languages, but none of them recognized the particular use of the Ithare alphabet used for the rest of the text.
“Look at later sections,” Grigán proposed. “Maybe there are some easier passages?”
The Maz did just that, despairing that she couldn’t satisfy her curiosity immediately. Léti had given her the journal a deciday earlier, on the riverbank, but Lana hadn’t had time to examine it as they fled the Holy City. After only a few pages, such disappointment! By the grace of Eurydis, what a cruel destiny.
“Achem must have written everything related to Ji in code,” Yan suggested. “A way of respecting his oath.”
“But he already betrayed that oath,” Rey argued, “by revealing some of Jal’dara’s secrets to the other Emaz.”
“He never mentioned Jal’dara,” Lana corrected. “Neither in his speeches, nor in this text. He did not betray them.”
“He still used the information to influence the Temple,” the actor responded. “Either way, it’s not important. Who other than a Maz could care about these barren discourses on good and evil?”
Lana interrupted her research to stare at the actor. She had understood all of the implications of the text, and had imagined that her friends understood as well.
“It goes much further than theological debates, Reyan,” she said in a serious voice. “Did you not understand? The secret of our ancestors is here, laid bare, black and white. All this is why they suffered!”
“I don’t think I understood either, friend Lana,” Bowbaq intervened timidly.
The Maz looked to Corenn for support, hoping that she at least had understood the revelations. Luckily, that was the case, and the Mother summarized the situation much better than the Maz could have.
“If Achem is telling the truth, a god’s power is linked to the amount of attention humans give. To be more clear: the more a cult spreads, the stronger their god becomes.”
“At least, while they are still children,” Lana clarified. “The Poem of Romerij only mentions children.”
“If that is true,” Corenn continued, “then men and women could gather and together form a new god, endowing it with a name, a character, and particular powers to suit their own purposes.”
“Excuse me,” Rey interrupted. “How can one use a god? I don’t mean to be offensive, but do you know what you’re saying?”
“Try to have an open mind,” Corenn advised. “Having seen the portal on Ji, the ghosts, the Mog’lur, surely by now you must believe in gods?”
“Their existence, yes. Now, yes. But from belief to thinking we can invoke them by snapping our fingers, and have them do our chores . . .”
“It’s certainly possible,” Lana responded, “if a god is formed with this in mind. By Eurydis! All of this is so disturbing. Sacrilegious!”
“Impolite?” offered Bowbaq, who looked more and more disturbed himself.
“In a way, yes. Mankind can create gods and make them slaves . . . What a horror! What chaos! We aren’t ready for that power.”
Finally, they all understood their ancestors’ curse, and their responsibility. An informed humanity would either undergo a great spiritual evolution or tumble into madness. Should they share the secret, or not?
From then on, the heirs would also bear this burden. From then on, they would fear the Züu for another reason, much more serious than their own survival. And if Zuïa were one day powerful enough to walk among men? If Phiras, strengthened by prayer, materialized and became the oppressive demon his followers worshipped? And if Soltan, Yoos, and K’lur manifested?
Perhaps they already had. Perhaps man’s dark thoughts had brought demons into the world already, in the kingdoms where they were strongest. Perhaps, even, man’s fear was enough to give the gods strength . . . as much as the adoration of their reckless worshippers.
From then on, the heirs would be unable to hear a demon’s name without trembling, without thinking that, somewhere in the world, or in another close by, the entity existed and was listening.
“Revealing this secret would unleash mayhem,” Grigán said.
“But it can’t be that easy,” Léti said. “There must have to be thousands, hundreds of thousands of believers to create a god. It must take many centuries.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. How can we know?”
No one responded. The implications of this discovery were endless, and they understood so little. They could spend days discussing it without making any progress—as their ancestors probably had. But whereas their ancestors discussed only theories of gods, their heirs faced the real thing. An immediate threat, of which Bowbaq reminded them.
“Could something in here help us defeat Saat?” he asked, without much hope for a positive answer.
Corenn shook her head regretfully. Nothing that they had found in the Deep Tower of Romine or in Maz Achem’s journal hinted at how Saat could have reappeared a century after his death, filled with power and a desire to exterminate the heirs.
“The solution might be in the rest of the text; we just have to figure out the code,
” Lana said.
“And what should we do until then?” Rey asked. “That could take days.”
They turned toward Grigán and Corenn, waiting for their leaders to make a decision. For the first time in dékades, the pair were indecisive.
“We can’t stay in Ith,” Grigán confirmed. “Not after what happened. The Züu will find us.”
They all agreed on this point. They didn’t know how the killers could have been waiting for them in the Holy City. It was as if their enemy knew their every move.
“Saat is somewhere behind the Curtain . . . ,” Corenn suggested softly, waiting to see Grigán’s reaction.
His eyes opened in surprise, then his expression turned pensive. He stood, paced, and looked at the tall mountains looming over the forest where they hid.
“I don’t think so,” he started to say, turning back toward the group.
Six people were waiting for him to decide. Six people counted on him, to show them their path forward. But Grigán saw no better way than Corenn’s. If he had been alone, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
“All right,” he said grudgingly. “We will find Saat on the other side of the mountains.”
For the first time in years, the warrior would travel to unknown territory, hoping to find the man who haunted their lives, and who shared Jal’dara’s secret.
That night, the heirs camped on the banks of the Beremen, one of the two rivers that crossed the capital of the Grand Empire to join the Alt. After several decidays, they had already crossed a third of the empire’s eastern expanse.
Although the Curtain Mountains had the reputation of being impassable, particularly at the start of the cold season, some Goranese patrols roamed the mountains to prevent enemy infiltration. Thanks to Grigán’s experience, the heirs had already avoided two of them, and had been inspected by a third with no trouble. The Goranese gave them no grief, and Corenn deduced that they were truly at war with the Thalittes, and not against Lorelia. This helped confirm Saat’s presence behind the Curtain.
They hadn’t stopped moving since Lana had read the introduction to her ancestor’s journal, and they hadn’t discussed their immediate problem: the next direction to take. As they rode, they all had time to meditate on recent events. They didn’t speak about the luck that had kept them all alive during their confrontation with the Züu in the Holy City.
Grigán and Corenn reproached Léti, more for form than anything, for ignoring the command to retreat and putting the entire group in danger. But since her initiative had paid off, the lecture was useless. Léti accepted each critique, but saw gratitude from the rest of the group, especially Lana.
The Maz confessed she was shocked by Rey’s actions.
“Attacking from behind, that’s not a fair fight, Rey.”
“They just stabbed Drékin,” Rey reminded her, a little annoyed. “Do you think they deserve a fair fight?”
“The stupid get drunk, the wise only want to,” the Maz recited pedantically. “We don’t have to act like them, Reyan.”
“And what should I have done, according to you? Asked him to turn around? Give him the chance to stab me?” Rey asked incredulously.
Lana didn’t know how to respond. Eurydis defended Peace, but was silent when it came to situations where that was impossible.
“Excuse me, Reyan,” she asked soon after. “I spoke with the ease of ignorance. I didn’t fight. And I have no desire to lose you,” she finished softly.
The actor accepted her apology with a smile, and changed the subject by complimenting Corenn’s unknown talent with a crossbow.
“To be honest, you are better with it than I,” he said. “If you want, I will offer it to you as a gift!”
The Mother shook her head, looking embarrassed. She did not regret what she had done; she regretted having the need to do it. Killing a man in cold blood.
Yet it wasn’t really cold blood. When she saw Léti fall for the assassins’ trap, the Mother lost control of herself. If she had been thinking, she would have used magic against her enemies, breaking a rule she had repeated hundreds of times to Yan: Never call upon your Will under the influence of rage, suffering, or liquor.
She looked at the timid young man, who hardly spoke during their discussions. Everyone knew, without him saying as much, that he had used magic to kill three of the assassins. Yan had entered another person’s mind and taken control of his body. It had only taken a moment, and it appeared to be easy. Too easy.
When the moment came for him to tell his story, the conversation died. For the nonmagicians, the astounding growth in Yan’s powers was too frightening to be casually mentioned, so they tacitly avoided the subject. For Bowbaq, the event was more evidence of Yan’s aptitude. Yan had touched another’s deep mind, and Bowbaq could only feel respect for his young friend.
For Corenn, watching Yan’s growth was an immense joy . . . and brought an even stronger feeling of dread. It exceeded her abilities to help, as more and more things did.
If Yan, a magician for only two moons, was capable of such wonders, what powers might a two-hundred-year-old sorcerer have? And what could they do against such a man?
An execution ceremony. The largest Zamerine and Emaz Chebree had ever organized, to serve both as an example, and as a way to reinforce the respectful fear the slaves felt for Somber.
Five Thalitte prisoners had tried to escape, and three had been caught the next day by the Züu who had been sent after them. The two other prisoners had had no better luck; their heads had simply been added to the others decorating Somber’s altar.
Rumors circulated that the god’s temple, once it was finished, would hold the skulls of the more than eighty thousand slaves who built it. It would be a gigantic building. However, that wasn’t the reason for all of the work. Even after building Somber’s altar, a palace for Saat and his captains, and other houses and fortification walls, Zamerine hadn’t known what to do with the hundreds of quintals of rock extracted from the mountain.
Giving in to a fantasy, he ordered the construction of arenas similar to those in Lus’an. The idea greatly pleased the High Diarch, and building the arenas became a priority equal to the temple. The High Diarch’s encouragement also served as the impetus for this ceremony.
To highlight the event’s importance—the first of its kind for the New Order—Zamerine had selected eleven additional agitators, including two Wallattes from their own army. Along with the three fugitives, he had fourteen victims who would suffer a memorable ceremony.
When the day finally arrived, once again, after many years, Zamerine sat as a Judge. Thousands of miles away from Lus’an, Zuïa’s law spread over the world.
Behind him sat the diarchs, one wearing his ever-present helm, and the other with an unreadable expression. Two chiefs, inflexible, confident, respected. Feared.
To Saat’s right was Emaz Chebree. The barbarian queen, grand priestess, attached to her master’s side with a predatory smile. Like the others—maybe more than the others—she waited with morbid fascination to see the torture.
Zamerine had been placed to the Young Diarch’s left, but didn’t have the courage to stay there. A few dékades earlier, the Judge had complained about the laconic young man’s silence and absolute indifference, which scared him more than he could explain. His feeling of dread was worse now that the Young Diarch had woken. His laughter was scornful and cruel, his gaze pierced Zamerine’s soul, and his voice, on the rare occasions he used it, was heavy and oppressive, carrying a hidden menace. The Zü did his best to avoid him.
Half of the troops from their army filled most of the arena’s bleachers. The men present in the audience had earned the honor by luck or as a prize for a job well done.
On the other side of the arena was a much quieter crowd: several hundred slaves, chosen to carry tales of Somber’s power, and the cruelty of the diarchs and their captains, to their brothers and sisters.
The first convict was brought to the arena’s center by a group of Egosie ho
rsemen, chosen by Zamerine for the way the other warriors, even the proud gladores, respected them. The prisoner was naked and weaponless in the sand.
Three Farikii walked out into the arena to great applause. The vampire rats’ handlers each had five beasts that they released simultaneously, to the crowd’s delight.
The condemned man screamed and ran, but there would be no escape. Soon the fifteen famished monsters caught up to him, and he tried to fight them off, screaming and struggling, before succumbing to a second round of attacks. While he shrieked in pain, the warriors laughed deeply and the slaves looked on in horror.
It was only an introduction, a first course. Soon the laughter faded, and the Farikii gathered their rats, letting the convict wither on the ground, his body almost bloodless and riddled with wounds.
Saat spoke briefly to the crowd once it was done. Zamerine knew his master’s words well, even when reformulated and embellished. They always served the same purpose: to push and galvanize men by evoking images of conquest, wealth, and power. As always, the thickheaded brutes who composed their army let Saat’s powerful oration overwhelm them, and his final words were greeted by the clamor of hundreds of blades hammering against armor. Versed as he was in diplomacy and manipulation, Zamerine was almost bored by the whole demonstration. What followed, however, surprised him greatly.
Saat invited Chebree forward with a gesture, and she stepped up hastily. This wasn’t part of the program. She wasn’t supposed to talk until the end of the ceremony. Had they changed the plan without warning him?
Building Somber’s cult had never been a priority for Zamerine, who remained loyal to Zuïa. Still, he helped Chebree whenever he could, whether that meant supplying soldiers and slaves or building the temple. He didn’t follow their new god, but was that a sufficient reason to remove him from important decisions?
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