Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3)

by D. K. Holmberg

  What would her uncle think about her reaching out to the Deshmahne for help? And would he understand her need to reveal who she was, putting herself and those with her in danger?

  “As I told your captain, there are thousands of those creatures making their way south,” Roelle said. “That's why the north has emptied as much as it has. People are being slaughtered, entire towns and villages destroyed by those creatures, and there are few who can stop them.”

  Fenick’s eyes narrowed. “I've heard the rumors.”

  “Then you have heard that most men cannot see them.”

  “Those who embrace the Deshmahne faith are not most men.”

  His gaze drifted past her and toward the remaining Deshmahne camped with them. Of the dozen the captain sent with them, only five lived. They were mostly silent, sitting by a crackling fire, camped just like any other soldiers she'd traveled with had camped. It didn’t fit with what she knew of the Deshmahne. They had attacked mindlessly, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that they faced the Magi, or that they might disrupt peace. But Fenick seemed different.

  Why should that be?

  “Do the Deshmahne know about these creatures?” Roelle asked. That was what she really needed to know. If the Deshmahne knew about the groeliin, if they knew what they were capable of doing, and if that was the reason they pressed so hard into the north, how could she do anything other than support them? How could she do anything other than find a way to join with them?

  The idea troubled her, but stopping the groeliin was now the reason she was here.

  “I’m a soldier. I follow my commands.”

  “But you can tell me where your commands tell you to go. You can let on whether the Deshmahne intend to help stop this threat or whether the preparations we saw in Rondalin were for some other reason. Most of the people in the north can't even see these creatures. They need the help of those who can.”

  “Like you?” His brow furrowed in a frown.

  Roelle sighed. “Yes, like me. Like the two with me.” She motioned to Selton and Jhun holding the reins of their horses, ready to ride. They wanted to return to the rest of the Magi, as did Roelle, but she owed it to Fenick to work through this first.

  “What are you?” Fenick asked yet again. “You have abilities much like those in the order. You fight much like the order. Perhaps the Desh sent you as a way to test me? Is that what this is? Do they doubt my leadership?”

  “How many priests were in Rondalin?” Roelle asked, thinking to change the topic. She did it mostly to discover if there was something else she could learn about the Deshmahne. There was something about the Deshmahne she missed, something she didn't quite understand, something that perhaps Fenick could help her understand.

  “The priests have traveled the north, preaching and converting new believers,” Fenick said.

  “There have to be some in the city.”

  “There are some. The most powerful of the priests return to our temple, it is a place of power.”

  “And the soldiers we saw preparing?”

  “They’re going with the Desh for protection.”

  Roelle worried about how that would appear to the nations in the south. “How were you converted?”

  “Do you think I’ll share all about myself, while you share nothing?” Fenick asked. He leaned closer to her, his eyes narrowing. The blue in them seemed to glow and contrasted with the dark tattoos working up into his neck. “You haven't told me who you are. What you are. Tell me, Roelle. How is it that you have the powers you do? How is it that you can see these creatures, the ones your rumors tell us none can see?”

  Roelle took a deep breath, scanning the Deshmahne sitting away from her. She lowered her voice. “Because I am Mageborn.”

  The word hung for a moment before it seemed as if the wind carried it away.

  Fenick started to laugh. His eyes didn't share the emotion, and his face maintained the stern, serious countenance that he’d worn since she first was introduced to him. “Indeed? Could it be the Magi finally think to honor the gods through strength?”

  “The Magi have always sought to honor the gods,” she said.

  Fenick grunted. “Have they? How do they honor the gods when they hide? How is it an honor when they keep their powers hidden, sequestered away so that no others can share in them? How does that honor the gods?”

  “The gods give the gifts they give. We must work with what we are given.”

  “Or take what we need.”

  Roelle sat stiffly, meeting Fenick's gaze. “Is that how the Deshmahne do it? Is that how you gain powers?”

  Fenick stared at her, and she thought he might not answer, but then, he breathed out slowly. He shifted, leaning back, and away from her, resting on his hands as he did. “There is a ceremony. We call it the Ascension. It's where our abilities are granted to us.”

  Roelle swallowed, trying to hide her surprise. She hadn't expected him to answer. Why would the Deshmahne use the same phrase the Urmahne had for the gods departing the world? “How are you granted your abilities?”

  “There is a sacrifice. Some must die so others may rise.”

  “And you're comfortable with taking from other people?”

  Fenick laughed, a dark sound that made Roelle shiver. How could he so easily dismiss what the Deshmahne did to others? “Other people? That's not the kind of sacrifice I'm referring to.” He sat up, and the light from the fire danced off his eyes. “Animals. Our horses. Fox. Wolves. All have strength, all have something they can offer. Those gifts are granted to the believers.”

  “Are you certain that's how all are granted powers?” Roelle asked.

  “I’m not one of the Desh. I can only tell you what I’ve experienced.”

  The rumors she'd heard about the sacrifices involved people, hadn’t they? Wasn’t that what Lendra had witnessed? It had to have been more than that, more than animal sacrifice. That was bad enough but less horrific than the alternative. What if all the Deshmahne went through a ceremony like Fenick described? What if that was all there was?

  What if the converts had simply become soldiers? How was that any different from the Denraen choosing? How was that any different from Roelle and her interest in learning the sword?

  If it was not, she needed to let go of her anger toward the Deshmahne. Wasn't that what the gods taught? That had to be why she had come north.

  “We can't do this on our own. We had a hundred with us—now less—and a little more than three times that with some other allies,” she said, not wanting to let on that the Antrilii fought with them. “But not enough against the numbers of groeliin we face. Don't you think you owe it to the people you protect to help with this? Isn’t that how you can honor the gods?”

  Fenick stared at the fire. After a while, he said, “I will speak with the captain. I will share what we have seen. I can make no promises.”

  Roelle nodded slowly and stood. That was all she could ask.

  And perhaps that would be enough.

  The bars of the cell were thick, nearly as thick as two of her fingers. Isandra didn’t think she could do anything about them in a healthy state, let alone in her weakened form. She slapped at them in her frustration.

  She heard a sound from down the hall. She tried looking to see what caused it, pushing her face through the bars, but couldn’t see anything. It was too dark. She was forced to wait to see what it was that had made the sound.

  Part of her didn’t care. They had tortured her in so many ways, that one more seemed like nothing. Occasionally, they would make noise in a place that she couldn’t see and would not come down. Other times, they did come down. It was those times that she wished they hadn’t.

  She looked down at her ankles as she waited to see if this were one of the times they would actually come. Different men had come each time; it was never the same torturer. Each seemed to have a specialty, though, and each knew how to cause pain.

  It was her ankles that hurt her the most. The Deshmah
ne advisor had done something to her, had branded her somehow, and with the branding, she could feel her mind closing off. Each day, it grew harder and harder for her to open that which made her Mageborn. Each day, the sense of the manehlin faded. Each day, she swore something different at the jagged brands upon her skin. They disgusted her. Pained her.

  A sound came again from down the hall, and she moved toward the bars to see again. A light bobbed along the wall, a candle that threatened to blow out with every step, and she knew someone came again. She waited.

  As the candle came closer, she saw a face that revolted her. It was the face of one she could honestly say she detested. The face of Tresh Longtree. She resisted the urge to spit at him. It was difficult.

  She’d come to help him, but he was Deshmahne, and likely had been when he’d gone to Vasha in the first place. How had the Magi made such a mistake? They had practically invited the Deshmahne into Vasha.

  Longtree laughed at her. It was a deep laugh that filled the corridor. It didn’t seem to fit one so frail as he seemed. Then again, that was what put her in this situation in the first place. She had assumed he was frail. Had assumed he was weak and would not be able to accomplish what the Council asked of him.

  “How does your cell fit you today, Elder?” he sneered at her, her title mocked. “I trust the rats have been good company?” He laughed again.

  She forced a smile. She would not allow herself to show weakness in front of this boy. “Better company than I have now, Longtree,” she answered. She again repressed the urge to spit at him.

  He laughed again. “You and the other Magi,” he spat, “think the Urmahne the way to the gods. You have failed to see the true path to them.”

  She listened to him without response, keeping her face neutral. The boy did not deserve to see a show of emotion from her. It was hard for her, though. She was acutely aware of the brand on her ankle, aware of what was stolen from her, all because of him, because she’d made the mistake of coming here, thinking that she would help him.

  “You even thought to follow me here,” he motioned with his hands, “to my father’s city after I had already deposed of my other ‘keeper.’”

  She had seen with her own eyes what had happened to Wendiy and understood why they had not heard from her. She had seen the Mage’s eyes and tongue in the jar on the Deshmahne’s desk in the room where she had been branded. She had even seen Wendiy herself, branded as she was, cowering in a nearby cell. She had tried several times to offer her support, but in her weakened state, she could offer nothing more than sweet words. She thought the whimpering was less, though, and was glad of it.

  As he talked, she knew he was right. She had not expected to encounter any serious threat when she came into Rondalin. She had not been sure what she would find, but certainly not the scene that she did encounter: the city run by Deshmahne.

  Isandra shook her head at her own arrogance thinking Rondalin was too far north for the Deshmahne, the same arrogance that the Council had in sending their delegates out. Were any of the delegates useful?

  She had not counted on nor expected the king’s advisor. The man seemed pure evil and had somehow robbed her of her Mage abilities. Then he branded her, stealing that which she had always known as her birthright. Wendiy was lost, trapped in her own hell down the hall. And what of Salindra? She hadn’t discovered what had happened to her and hadn’t seen any sign of the Mage who had served as the advisor to the Rondalin king.

  “Why did you come here today, Longtree?”

  He sneered at her. “Only to make a promise. When the last of your power is gone, mine will be the last face you see before you leave this earth. I hope you look forward to it as much as I do.”

  She shivered, in spite of trying to control it.

  The other reason she’d come north, searching for the apprentices, had failed as well. There had been no sign of the young Magi. She had hoped to find Roelle and the others, to advise them that no help was coming from the Council, yet that plan was thwarted with her capture.

  “Why do you do this?” she asked him suddenly. In the many times he had come to taunt her since her capture, she had never asked the question.

  He looked at her, and she could see even with the weak light of the candle that his face scrunched up in concentration, and she understood something about him at that moment. He might have converted to the Deshmahne, but he was not like the advisor. Longtree was soft. Deep within, he was soft. He could be broken. If she had any hope of escape, she would have to break him.

  “Why?” He leaned toward the cell and grinned. “The Magi think you have control when you abandoned that long ago. You believe you have the way to the gods, but you know nothing. The Deshmahne know the way to the gods. Strength is what matters.”

  “And you think you’re strong?”

  “Stronger than you think. I have been shown the power I will reach.”

  Isandra focused all of her being into opening that part of her mind that made her Mageborn. She stretched with all that she had to fill it. As she did, she could feel herself slip through the brand, could feel her consciousness stream from her wound, but it was not enough to stop her from doing what she wanted to do. A focused thought and the light of the candle snuffed out. It was harder to do and required more focus than any she had ever needed before.

  Longtree gasped, and try to move away, but he was not fast enough. She darted a hand out between the bars of the cell and grabbed him by the throat. She was stronger than he, much stronger, and she slammed him up against the bars several times, banging his head with all the strength she had left, trying not to think about how that fit with her experience of the Urmahne. What did it mean that she turned to violence?

  “I will get out of this cell, boy,” she hissed at him, holding his face smashed against the bars. “And you will regret ever crossing me.”

  She slammed his face into the bars two more times for good measure, as much as her fading strength would allow, and then let him go. He slipped to the floor before crawling back away from her.

  “Leave me!” she shouted. It had the desired effect. He scurried away from her faster than she would have thought possible for him.

  She knew she would suffer for what she did to him, but at the moment, she did not care. The thought of escape was all that mattered, all that filled her mind. She needed to get away, needed to warn Alriyn and the Council about Rondalin. She needed to warn the Councilors before they, too, were caught and branded. Most of all, she needed to escape so she could find some way to be healed. Much of her doubted it could be done, but a small part of her held out hope.

  It was all she could cling to.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Allay awoke in a darkened room. Walls of stone surrounded him. The air felt moist, humid, and he suspected they were near the coast, though it reminded him of Saeline. At least in Saeline, he hadn’t been captured. Beaten, yes, but not captured and tormented like this.

  His head throbbed. He struggled to work through what had happened.

  He was able to remember the attack he’d witnessed in the city. He recalled his and Mendi’s abduction. Beyond that… there was nothing.

  He sat up, moving his arms and legs, trying to work the pain out of them. Had he returned to Gomald only to get captured? It seemed a cruel twist of fate. Not only was he a prisoner in his own homeland, but he was also separated from Mendi after all they had been through to return.

  Allay looked around the room. It was a small cell, likely nothing more than a closet with a stout door, and a little light leaked beneath the crack of the door. He stood, feeling a little unsettled as he did, nausea threatening to overwhelm him, and reached the door. Though he knew it would be locked, he tested it anyway.

  He was well and truly trapped.

  The rebels had caught him, and they intended to kill him, just as he was sure they had killed Theodror. The only question now was when. Trapped as he was, he could do nothing more than wait.

  He
sat against the wall opposite the door. As time passed and his eyes adjusted, he could make out gradations in the shadows. With nothing else to do, his mind worked through all the ways that he had failed since leaving Vasha.

  After struggling with the decision to even seek out Locken, he failed to gain Queen Theresa’s trust and thus failed to learn Locken’s whereabouts. The Mage sent to accompany him had been turned by the Deshmahne, slaughtering the Denraen who had been there to protect them. That left him wondering about the other delegates. Had they been turned while in Vasha too? Had he failed to take note of their betrayal to the Urmahne? And then there was Mendi. He’d lost the person closest to him, failing to protect her from being abducted right along with him.

  Mendi. What would his abductors do with a slave? Would they harm her?

  Allay knew how his father would treat such captives, and shivered.

  It didn’t do to dwell on such thoughts, but there wasn’t anything else for him to do.

  So he sat.

  Allay didn't know how long he remained like that when he heard a noise outside his door.

  Sitting up, he stared at the line of light below the door.

  Something jostled in the lock. Allay got to his feet, ready to attack. There might be little he could do, but he wasn't going down without attempting to fight. If nothing else, he would do it for Mendi.

  The door opened, and he gasped. “Mendi?”

  She stepped in and reached for him. Allay didn't hesitate, and pulled her close, hugging her. “We should hurry. We don't have much time.”

  “How? How is it that you're here? How is it that you are able to free me?”

  “The rebellion.” It was all she would say as she led him out of the cell and down the hall.

  Walls of stone and a line of wooden doors along the hall told him it was a simple building. There was something familiar about it, though he wasn’t certain what. Mendi said nothing as they walked, moving quickly and quietly.

  They reached a landing with narrow sets stairs leading both up and down. Mendi took the stairs up without hesitation. At the next landing, she paused, looking down the hall. At the end of the hall, he saw movement. Mendi motioned to him, and they hurried up more stairs.