Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3)

by D. K. Holmberg

  As they climbed, he watched her, looking for signs of harm from her capture. Instead, she appeared well. He had worried for her while in that dark cell, wondering what would come of her. Within Gomald she was a slave, which meant she had no rights and mattered little. Other than to him. Those leading the rebellion likely wouldn't feel the same way.

  “How is it that you know where we’re going?” he asked.

  Mendi did not look back as she answered. “Allay, there are things you don't understand.”

  “What aren't you telling me?” He stopped on the stairs, looking at her. Finally, she turned back to face him.

  “Allay—”

  “There's something going on here that I need to understand. If this is about the rebellion, I need to understand. I need to help stop it.”

  “That's just it,” Mendi said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mendi sighed. “The rebellion. It can't be stopped.”

  He blinked, starting to piece together what might have happened. Could the rebellion be tied to more than his father’s plans? “Why can’t it be stopped? Wait… Are you a part of it?”

  A pained look came across Mendi's face. “I… I was supposed to get close to you. I was supposed to use what information I learned from you and feed it to the rebellion.”

  “You've been providing them information all this time?”

  She met his gaze. “As I've told you, Gomald is not my home. Your father claimed my home.”

  “Have you only been pretending with me…”

  He couldn't finish. What was there for him to finish?

  He thought that they were friends. The longer he knew her, the more he began to hope for more than friendship, though he knew how unreasonable that was. If she was a part of the rebellion, if she was a part of this attack, had everything that had been shared between them been fake?

  “Where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked.

  “Allay—”

  “I need to know. Where are you taking me?”

  “I need to get you out of here. The rebellion…”

  “I know about the rebellion. I didn't know you were a part of it.” He said the last with more hurt and anger than he intended, and his voice carried.

  And yet Mendi being a part of the rebellion made sense, didn't it? Why wouldn't slaves be a part of it? What loyalty would they feel toward the people of Gomald?

  They weren't Gomald. They were slaves, people of Salvat, once proud and free until his grandfather had enslaved them. His father had done nothing but oppress them since that time, making their slavery that much worse.

  “I'm trying to get you to safety,” Mendi said.

  “How do I know that's true?” he asked.

  “Because I—”

  Armed men suddenly appeared on the stairs on both sides of them. Their swords pointed toward Allay and Mendi. A horrified expression twisted her face, and she looked up at the gray-bearded man who stood at the top of the stairs, watching them with eyes narrowed to slits.

  “You think to help him escape?” the man asked. “This man who has been part of our oppression for so long?”

  “I—”

  The man cut her off with a shake of his head and slammed his sword into its sheath. “Grab him.”

  “You don't understand! He's not what you think,” Mendi said.

  Allay realized that she was arguing on his behalf. Could her feelings have been real?

  Rough hands grabbed him, jerking his arms behind his back.

  Allay didn't struggle. There seemed no point. He was captured, trapped in some unknown building, possibly no longer even in Gomald. And now, Mendi was trapped with him.

  Worse, there was nothing he could do to help her. Her decision to help him had cost her her own freedom.

  Why would she have made such a choice?

  He looked at her, not wanting to believe that she could have been lying to him all this time, and hopeful that what had been between them had been real.

  As he was dragged away, dragged once more to the cell, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She watched, and it broke his heart to see the pained expression on her face.

  When the door opened the next time, Allay sat slumped against the wall.

  Day after day it had been the same. The door opened just enough for someone to slide a meal tray through, and then shut quickly. Most of the meals were a thick stew, though he was occasionally given a lump of bread or cheese. Those were days when he was spoiled.

  After the first few days, he feared he would lose track of time, so he had started making marks the wall, determined to keep track of how many days he was in prison. He expected them to decide about him sooner rather than later, thinking that they would use him in some way as a martyr to the rebellion. They would bring him out, show off how they had captured the son of King Richard, and likely leave him to the same fate as his brother. The longer he was captive, Allay’s hope that he might regain his freedom slipped further and further away.

  A part of him hoped for another visit from Mendi, wishing for a chance to understand what she’d done, but she hadn’t returned.

  Was she even able to come?

  Maybe she’d been tormented for her role in trying to assist him. It should matter little—she’d been lying to him for years. He should not concern himself with her anymore.

  Yet she had attempted to free him. That meant something, didn't it?

  It was his own fault that she hid who she was from him. He had treated her well, but he hadn’t released her from her service. He hadn’t defied his father and done the right thing. He might not have treated her like a slave, but he never attempted to free her.

  That hurt the most. Realizing that he could have done things differently, that he could have been someone different to her.

  And so he sat, day after day, making marks on the walls, eating his stew and occasional bread and cheese, wishing that he had done things differently with Mendi.

  There had been many days when he’d heard the sounds of fighting in the city. There had been screams and explosions, and once, Allay had noted the ground rumbling.

  What was taking place in the city?

  When the door finally opened, Allay did not expect anything more than another tray. He had grown tired of the same meal, tired of the lack of light, tired of the hard, damp ground, but didn't expect anything else.

  This time, the door opened all the way.

  Even when they came to reclaim his meal tray and chamber pot, they opened the door just enough to retrieve them, but never any wider than that.

  This time, a man stood framed in the doorway. Light streamed around him, enough that Allay could see that it was the same man who had caught him on the stairway, the same bearded man who had seemed so disappointed to see Mendi trying to free him. There was something familiar about him, but Allay couldn’t place it.

  “Stand.”

  “What does it matter if I stand? What does it matter if I—”

  “Stand.”

  He considered resisting, but what would that bring? Would they harm Mendi if he did?

  More than anything, that prompted him. As he stood, he realized how weak he had become from his time in the cell.

  How long had it been? Days? No… It was more than days. This had been at least a week, probably more. If he’d had a chance to check the markings on the wall, he might have been able to tell. As it was, he wasn't certain.

  “Come.”

  The man started out of the door, not waiting for Allay to follow.

  The door remained open, and Allay considered sinking back to the ground, letting himself wallow in the darkness, but he suspected they would just come for him once more.

  Not knowing what else to do, he made his way down the hall. There were no others here, only the man now standing at the far end of the hall, his sword sheathed at his side, waiting, watching Allay. He held a steely gaze on his prisoner, maybe waiting to see if Allay would attempt to run.

  It was s
omething that he considered but dismissed. There was no place he could go. They'd already proven they could recapture him and that was when Mendi had been there to help. Without her, there was nothing he could do.

  Allay made his way down the hall until he reached the man. “What is it you want from me?” he asked.

  “Come with me. We'll talk as we go.”

  The change in the man’s tone was not lost on Allay. He frowned, noting that the man nursed a massive gash on the side of his face, and walked with a slight limp. They reached a wide stair that led downward. The man took the stairs two at a time, his long gait making it look easy.

  Allay followed, taking the stairs more carefully. In his weakened state from the days spent confined, he worried more about tripping and falling than about keeping pace with the large man.

  As Allay approached the next landing where the man waited, he asked, “Did you kill my brother?”

  For a moment, Allay saw an uncertain expression cross the man's face. Then it passed. Without answering, he continued down the stairs. When he reached a wide door, he again waited for Allay.

  “You're only being given this opportunity because of my daughter,” the man said, stepping through the door and into bright sunlight.

  Allay realized why the man had disappointment on his face when he'd seen Mendi with him. “Your daughter? Mendi is your daughter?” he asked, chasing after him.

  “Your father thought it would be amusing to have my family serve his.”

  Allay’s breath caught. He understood why he had recognized the man. He had been a servant in his father's household. He was one of the men who had been forced to work in the palace. “Did you kill Theodror?” he asked again

  “We had nothing to do with your brother’s death, but we used it as an opportunity to take power from those who mistakenly think to honor the gods through violence.”

  Allay licked his dry lips. “The Deshmahne?”

  The man nodded. “My daughter tells me you have some experience with them?”

  Allay nodded slowly. Things were coming together, but not as quickly as he needed. He didn't understand what was happening, or why he was suddenly freed.

  What did they intend for him?

  They crossed a courtyard, and Allay glanced back, noting that they had been in a well-built manor house. There were dozens like it along the coast of Gomald, often owned by rich merchants. With the ships coming in and out of Lakeliis and Coamdon, even some from Voiga, merchants in Gomald did well.

  His father had been lenient with taxes. He recalled a conversation with him when Richard had made it clear how the merchants were the lifeblood of Gomald. That had been a time long ago, a time before Richard had grown a strange fascination with Thealon. It had been a time when Allay had actually learned from his father.

  “Where are we?” Allay asked.

  Over the din of voices in the courtyard, that of men and women working, he heard the soft crashing of waves. He’d guessed right; he was still in Gomald. They hadn't taken him out of the city.

  “Where?” the man asked. “From the look on your face, I think you know where.”

  “What of Mendi?” he asked.

  Her father sighed. “My daughter is… fond of you. If she weren't—if you had treated her poorly—you would have met the same fate as your brother.”

  Allay tensed and glanced over at him. “I thought you didn't kill my brother.”

  “We didn't. But we would have no qualms about deposing of you.”

  “You realize that when my father catches wind of the rebellion, he’ll return.”

  Mendi's father nodded. “We’re aware. That's the other reason for your freedom.”

  “I don't understand.”

  Mendi’s father nodded and led them through a small doorway in the wall on the other side of the courtyard. A narrow dock stretched out into the sea, and a trading ship was tied to the dock. “Your father seeks to destroy, Prince Allay. He was willing to unleash those who would overthrow the gods.” The man studied Allay’s face, his eyes unreadable. “Mendi tells me that you recognize the violence in these men. That you recognize how they do not regard the gods as they should, and how they should not be in Urmahne lands.”

  “If you mean the Deshmahne, I've seen how they attack, and I've seen what they're willing to do.”

  “We managed to suppress the Deshmahne in Gomald. We have lost much, but the city is free. That is why I’ve come to you.”

  “Suppress?” Was that the explosions that Allay had heard? Had he heard the sounds of the fighting in the city? He had thought the rebellion was waged against his father, but what if it was against the Deshmahne?

  “As I said, we lost many, but the dark priests have left the city. Too many remain in the north, which is where you come in.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “No? I believe you were sent with an assignment by the Magi? From what Mendi tells me, you’ve seen the Deshmahne numbers? We believe they intend something more.”

  Allay looked over to the ship, wondering what Mendi’s father intended.

  But hadn’t he come to the city thinking to control the rebellion? But now that he understood that it was nothing like what he'd thought, nothing like what he would have believed, what would he do?

  It was clear now that there were others who didn't support the Deshmahne. That was valuable to know. After spending time in Vasha with Dougray and Danvayn, he’d begun to wonder. They had made it seem almost natural to accept the Deshmahne. They seemed to believe that there was nothing wrong with allowing the warrior priests to assume control.

  Allay hadn't felt the same way, but he hadn't known what he could do.

  Could Mendi's father be the key?

  “What is it that you want me to do?”

  “We want you to find a way to complete the task you were assigned. The Deshmahne pose a greater threat than most realize. The south is lost—for now—but we can’t lose the north, not with what else is coming.”

  “What is coming?”

  “That is not our fight. The Deshmahne are.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “You need to unify Gom Aaldia. You will have to work with Thealon. Only if the two work together can we stop the Deshmahne.”

  “And the ship?”

  Mendi's father shrugged. “Mendi tells me you are looking for King Locken. I happen to know where you will find him.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alriyn emerged from the mines through a gate that opened into the first terrace of the city. Endric motioned to one of his two Denraen soldiers guarding the gate, and he ran off. The air had a smoky, almost a gritty quality to it, and thick clouds obscured part of the city, as they occasionally did. Usually, this level was spared, clouds shrouding the upper levels of the city, primarily shrouding the third terrace and the palace of the Magi.

  “Something's not right,” Endric said.

  “I sense it as well,” Novan agreed.

  They hurried into the city, leaving the single Denraen guard to stand watch in front of the entrance to the mines. Had Alriyn not known it was there, he doubted he would've been able to find it again. It was well hidden, away from the city center, behind boulders at the base of the wall below the second terrace. Still, there were scratches to the rock, some that appeared fresh, that made him wonder whether there had been a battle here recently. Could the Deshmahne have found this place?

  Alriyn hurried after them onto the street that ran through most of this level of the city. He stopped suddenly, now understanding the source of the odor in the air.

  Vasha burned.

  “What happened? Alriyn asked.

  “The Deshmahne have attacked.” Endric unsheathed his sword, and a determined expression came to his face, one that was both frightening and reassuring.

  As they hurried through the streets, they found Denraen working with people of the city, attempting to put out fires, but getting water was difficult in the city. Most was
collected in reservoirs, coming from the rain and snowmelt, but there was no steady supply, no stream for them to utilize. The fires would soon claim the entire city.

  At the first burning building—a tavern, Alriyn realized—he stopped. Drawing upon his Magi ability, he opened his mind, stretching it, filling the void that was there. Energies swirled around him, but also around Endric and Novan as he had seen previously. Once again, he ignored that energy. Around the city, there were others with hints of it, but not with the same intensity.

  He turned his attention to the tavern. Stretching out with his manehlin, he reached for the energy of the fire. There were several ways to approach fire. One was to simply excite the energy in the air, surging more into it, so that it began to glow. The reverse was also true. He could pull the manehlin, drawing it back, slowing it.

  Alriyn hoped that this was enough to quench the fire.

  As he focused his energy, the fire began to fade. Shouts of excitement came from the men fighting the fire, and Alriyn continued, pulling the manehlin from the flames and to himself.

  He could only hold so much, and there was a limit to how long he could hold it.

  Always before, his limit had been very clear to him. Now, since fighting Jostephon, that limit had changed. Now he pulled in the entirety of the energy creating the fire. He held it, squeezing it within his mind until the flames faded completely. Once that was done, he released it, the manehlin seeping back out, moving on to wherever it went.

  Where it went was something the Magi had never fully determined, though they studied it frequently. Manehlin seemed a constant, unable to be used up. The Magi could draw on it, change it, temporarily hold onto what they borrowed from other sources, but when they released it back, they didn’t know where it went.

  Alriyn turned to a neighboring building that rose several stories. Windows lined the building, and flames crackled and leapt from them. Likely an inn. How many were trapped inside? How many suffered because of this attack?